


Mobsters and Monsters

by Polyphemus117



Category: Gamera (Movies), Godzilla - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Camorra, Cartels, Constructive Criticism Welcome, Crossover, Dixie Mob, Explicit Language, Gangsters, Gen, Global Dynamics, International Relations, Irish Mob, Italian Mafia, Jamaican Posse, Kaiju, Kaiju fighting, Military Science Fiction, Multiple Settings, Police, Political Alliances, Russian Mafia, Triads, Yakuza, what could go wrong
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:20:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 36,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27621271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polyphemus117/pseuds/Polyphemus117
Summary: Major figures in organized crime are given control over kaiju by a mysterious entity. A lot of bloodshed ensues in this epic wide-scope fic.
Comments: 9
Kudos: 10





	1. Prologue- One Year Ago

DUBLIN, IRELAND

“Hello.”

Eamon McNamara nearly dropped his mug of tea out of surprise. His head whipped about the office behind the betting parlor, seeing no one. 

“No need to be alarmed,” the voice said. It was hardly more than a calm, soothing whisper, yet it seemed to fill the entire office. “No need to grab for the revolver in your desk drawer. It will do you little good. I am not physically present in the room, at least not in a form you can harm.”

“Sean, quit fucking about,” McNamara ordered, with a forced chuckle. 

“I assure you, Mr. McNamara, I am not one of your men. I have no interest in pranks. I am, however, interested in the criminal organization you manage in Limerick and Dublin.”

“Allegedly,” McNamara said automatically, before realizing that defending himself to a disembodied voice that appeared suddenly in his empty office was perhaps a doomed endeavor. “Just who in the hell are you?”

The voice chuckled, low and not unpleasant. “Please allow me to introduce myself. I'm a man of wealth and taste.”

LAS VEGAS, UNITED STATES

“Well, ain't that special,” Julian Capizzi said absently as he lifted another throw pillow on his living room couch, looking for a speaker or some other hidden device. The mafioso feared he looked ridiculous tearing apart his room in his terrycloth robe. Thank God no one was in the house to see him.

“I assure you, Mr. Capizzi, my presence is quite genuine. You are unlikely to find the source of my voice in that ficus,” the soothing whisper said as he pulled back on the plant's leaves. “Perhaps it would put your mind at ease if you had a visual component to interact with as well.” 

A shadow materialized on the far wall, a vague, smudgy human form. Capizzi looked back, trying to find the source, but found nothing, no one between the light source and the wall. “Okay, that's a pretty neat trick,” he admitted.

“Be seated and make yourself comfortable, Mr. Capizzi,” the voice suggested, now seemingly coming from the shadow. “A proposition may fall kindly upon your ear.”

DUBAI, UNITED ARAB EMIRATES

“Very well,” JP Husain allowed. He was a stoic man, not given to losing his composure or being inhospitable, even to living shadows. “May I offer you some refreshment? Tea, coffee, water? No alcohol, of course. Perhaps a Thums Up? I must confess I have not entirely forgotten the embrace of my homeland, there are some Indian products I simply cannot do without.”

“Your hospitality is appreciated, but I do not have the ability to accept,” the shadow said. “Allow me to make an offer in return, however. One that may give you the opportunity to return from exile to Mumbai.”

“New Delhi may disagree with that.”

If a shadow could smile it would. “They may not be able to,” the whisper said, almost playfully.

MEDELLIN, COLOMBIA

“Alright, you have my interest,” Maria Sandoval said, reclining in her chair- Danish, like all of the furniture in this safehouse. The trafficker maintained a dozen or so residences throughout the region, never sleeping in the same one two nights in a row. But she was particular about the furnishings. Always Danish, even in the meanest hovel.

“Close your eyes,” the voice instructed. “What you are about to see may upset you, but it cannot harm you.”

She hesitated for a moment- the possibility that this was all some kind of trick had not yet left her mind- but hesitantly squeezed them shut.

She was suddenly no longer in her own body.

Maria was suddenly huge, powerful. She looked down on the hills and trees, so puny below her. Her breath was as a hurricane, her footsteps shook the earth itself. She could feel the ocean of strength within her, knew that she had the ability to shatter worlds.

Her eyes flew open and she was once again in the quiet suburban safehouse. “What was that?” she asked, breathless.

MARSEILLES, FRANCE

“Mind transference. For a split second, we allowed you to ride in the body of another living creature.”

Ghjuvan Orsini bit his fleshy lip, blinked away sweat pouring from his forehead. He looked down to see his knuckles were white from gripping the armrests of his wheelchair. “Nothing in that history is that big, or that strong.”

“Exactly. The size varies slightly, but generally speaking they average around sixty meters in height. Conventional human weaponry does next to nothing to them. They require little food and heal relatively quickly. These creatures are essentially perpetual engines of destruction.”

Orsini struggled to slow his racing heart, wondering if perhaps a third heart attack was on the way. The brief taste of power was intoxicating. More than alcohol, more than cocaine. “How does this concern me?” he managed between gasps.

“How would you like one?”

HONG KONG, PRC 

Samuel Wu's jaw dropped. Unbecoming for a gray-haired veteran Mountain Master of one of the largest triads of the world. But an appropriate reaction to the astonishing offer. “You can't be serious.”

“I am,” the shadow replied. “I am extremely serious. I am offering you complete control over what you might refer to as a giant monster. A skyscraper-sized beast capable of routing armies and razing cities. Imagine what you could accomplish.”

NAPLES, ITALY

“Thank fully I have been blessed with an excellent imagination,” Cesare Pirone said dryly. It was true. The scion of an influential Camorra clan, his mind had been trained for crime from his childhood. Already, he was thinking, planning, calculating. But he knew that some offers were simply too good to be true, especially when coming from a shadow he encountered while tending to his garden. “What do you want in return?”

The shadow chuckled, low and pleasant. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Quite.”

“I saw Faust at the Teatro di San Carlo last year,” Pirone said. The young man continued to dig at a stubborn weed. “Interesting opera. For some reason I cannot stop thinking about it right now.”

“If you wish to ascribe me a motive, my own personal amusement is all you need.”

“And for this you offer a gangster a gigantic beast,” Pirone noted. The tomatoes would be good this year.

“You can't say the premise isn't amusing.”

BILOXI, UNITED STATES

“My father always taught me that something free can end up being awfully expensive,” Amelia Hawkins said as she poured a healthy measure of Old Charter bourbon. This whole experience was just weird. 

“How is your father?” the shadow asked. “Still on death row in Terre Haute, is he?”

“You know each other?”

“I know everyone,” the voice asserted. “Don't you think he would want you to take this opportunity?”

She took a healthy sip of bourbon from the crystal lowball glass. Her father's whiskey set. In her father's office, in her father's house. Hawkins knew what her father would want from her and the rest of the organization she managed in his absence. All too well. “There's a catch, though,” she said. “There's always a catch.”

KINGSTON, JAMAICA 

“There are conditions, yes,” the voice continued. “Terms of usage, if you will.”

“Let's chat, then,” Ivan Campbell challenged the voice. “Can't be shakin' hands with no clenched fist. Be open with I and I.”

The shadow's posture seemed to change. Less hunched, more satisfied, as though it knew it was beginning to convince the gangster. “Yes, let's talk indeed,” the voice said, the smallest note of satisfaction detectable beneath the honeyed tones.

LONDON, UNITED KINGDOM 

“One, you will not take control of the creature for a full year,” the voice stipulated.

“Oh, you're being a right contrary fuck,” William Staice protested in the alleyway behind his favorite pub, taking another drag from his cigarette. “You can't just give me a taste and tell me I can't have another go for another bloody year. It's fuckin' cruel, it is.”

Once again, as had frequently happened as it spoke to Staice, frustration crept into the timbre of the voice. “And what good would that do you or your firm, Mr. Staice? No time to plan, no time to prepare. I will be very disappointed if you do not use this opportunity to its fullest potential.”

FUKUOKA, JAPAN

“Your first condition is a sensible one,” Daisuke Homma said calmly. His razor focus on the shadow in his dockside office betrayed no nervousness. “We must carefully consider how to use such a generous gift. Haste will not help us.”

“I'm glad we agree,” the voice said. 

“You mentioned other conditions. May I ask what they might be?”

“Naturally. Secondly, I must insist on secrecy for the space of that year. You are not to mention this conversation or the existence of these creatures to anyone. Not your organization, not your family. No one. Of course you may direct them to do whatever preparatory work you find appropriate.”

Homma nodded in assent. Again, sensible to his mind.

CIUDAD JUAREZ, MEXICO 

“Patience and secrecy,” Joaquin Sosa nodded. “I'm eager, of course, but a year is very little time to wait compared to what we have to gain.”

“Precisely,” the voice noted. “Once the creature is yours to command, though, do as you will. I will not interfere.”

MELBOURNE, AUSTRALIA 

“I need a durry. How exactly do I control it?” Molly Ironsmith pushed back her unkempt, tangled hair, reached into the pocket of her leather vest for another smoke. 

“Are you familiar with the concept of telepathy?”

“What, like Carrie?” the bikie leader asked as she struck a match and lit her Winfield.

“Yes,” the voice replied after a long delay. “Like Carrie.”

“Controlling something like that with my mind. All I ever asked for was a fair go, not that kind of responsibility.”

“You're free to say no,” the voice suggested. 

The bikie vigorously shook her head. “Nah. Never have to buy my own drink again with this kind of story.”

LAGOS, NIGERIA

“I accept,” Dickson Okoro said. “Perhaps it is unwise. Perhaps you are a devil. Perhaps I am for saying yes. But I accept your offer.”

His words were echoed in several other cities across the globe. The shadow could not hide the pleasure in its whispered voice. “Excellent. Wait and plan, Mr. Okoro. One year from today, you will be one of the most powerful men on earth.”

MOSCOW, RUSSIA

The shadow faded, eaten away by the light of the bedroom. The voice was no more. Valery Kosarev blinked, got out of bed, the moonlight falling on his elaborate tattoos as he looked around the room shirtless. Perhaps he had dreamed it all. Perhaps he had simply just now woken from a vivid dream.

Then again, perhaps it was all real.


	2. K-Day: First Sightings

LAUGHLIN, UNITED STATES

Once a minor tourist paradise, Laughlin, Nevada had been on the decline since the late Nineties. The handful of high-rise hotels, restaurants, nightclubs, and casinos could not possibly compete with those found a mere 90 miles north in Las Vegas. It ranked a very distant third in Nevada gaming revenue, beaten with ease by Vegas and Reno. Flights to the small airport had been canceled on 9-11 and simply never resumed. Fewer and fewer people visited every year. Laughlin was dying a slow death.

K-Day greatly accelerated the process. 

The lack of visitors meant the death toll was perhaps not as high as it could have been, but that was little comfort to the survivors as the enormous black mass tore into what passed for downtown shortly after midnight. The enormous black bulk simply rushed out of the desert with the speed of an express train, cars and rubble sent flying as a massive cloud of dust rose around it. The 20-story Harrah's Casino didn't even cause it to break stride, simply crumbling to dust as the massive shape charged straight through it and into the Colorado River.

The need to feed the 24 hour news cycle saw the news immediately picked up, despite the lack of hard information. The coverage focused mostly on the devastation, the fire and smoke and rubble of Laughlin and the suburban homes of Bullhead City across the river in Arizona. The earliest reports referred to the disaster as an earthquake, before the straight track of destruction was noted and the first few shaky cellphone videos began to hit social media. But the news had little enough to go on.

Until the “Kumonga Watch” website was launched.

It was hardly noticed at first, but hashtags and direct messages soon spread the word across the internet like wildfire. Exclusive live unedited footage of what caused the Laughlin disaster. A mere $10 to access. 

The website delivered as promised. Drone footage, crews in ground vehicles and airplanes tracking it through the desert. Crisp and untouched. It looked like a spider, standing 20 meters at the shoulder, charging southeast into the Arizona desert at around 120 kilometers an hour, all eight legs whirring. The $10 was considered a sound investment. Within minutes, thousands were paying the fee and watching. Journalists, law enforcement, military officers, and countless regular civilians. The website insisted on referring to the creature as “Kumonga” and the name was soon trending as well- the more sensational news networks who had been calling it “Spiga” quietly switched over.

Then the first bet popped onto the site's chat function. A bet on whether the Army or Air Force would respond first. 3-1 in favor of the Air Force. Easy money. A good way to make back the $10. Many people put down a few dollars, hardly peeling their eyes off the captivating imagery of the giant spider tearing through the Arizona desert, kicking down telephone poles and leaping over highways.

The links continued. Invitations to pass the time in an online poker room or with online slots- 100% legitimate, the ads assured. More complicated bets emerged- the weight of the creature. The outcome of the inevitable battle with armed forces. The majority of viewers did not take the bait, and many used the comment section of the live streams to express their outrage that anyone could try to profit off the emergency. But enough did that the money kept rolling in.

THE SKIES OF MEXICO

Further south, civilian and military air traffic control was going fully haywire. Something was in the skies that didn't belong, something huge, larger than a 747. Faster too- radar was clocking it at Mach One. Controllers ran themselves ragged trying to clear airspace, to get flights out of its way as it zipped around over the country with no clear goal. The aircraft, if that's what it was, did not respond to being hailed on any frequency. 

It was difficult to make out in the night sky. Air traffic controllers in Jalisco stepped outside in an effort to spot what their screens told them was passing overhead, only for their ears to be assaulted by a droning buzz shortly before the sonic boom. 

It was about an hour before the first confirmed sighting, a Chilean airliner coming in for a landing at Cancún International Airport. The crew and passengers of the redeye flight were treated to a very good look at the 65-meter long unidentified flying object- a praying mantis, six legs tucked in neatly underneath the body as its gossamer wings spread out and propelled it at incredible speeds. Its bulbous eyes glowed faintly gold.

The incredible discovery was radioed in to the authorities and air traffic controllers, unsure of the creature's intentions, began to ground all planes.

SLOUGH, UNITED KINGDOM

Come, friendly bombs and fall on Slough   
It isn't fit for humans now   
There isn't grass to graze a cow.   
Swarm over, death!

We will never know how many people in Slough recalled Betjeman's verses that morning. It began around 7 AM local time, as many locals began to prepare for work. 

Some would be angry, as the forecast had not called for earthquakes while they were at breakfast or in the shower. The sudden rumbling, the objects falling from the shelf, the flickering lights. They screamed, the more sensible getting under something strong, some just cowering ineffectually. 

And as suddenly as it began it stopped completely, leaving the good people of Slough to sweep up broken glass and pick plaster dust from their hair.

Against all logic the earthquake seemed to be continuously moving east, towards the city of London. Geologists could do nothing more than shrug helplessly as the shaking continued through the suburbs, perilously close to Heathrow airport. Some speculated some tremendous machine was boring through the earth itself but they were quickly shouted down. As a precaution, Tube stations were closed and evacuated as the tremor continued to travel unabated through Osterley, through Brentford, through Chiswick. Minor damage and major confusion was left in its wake. 

And suddenly, beneath Hyde Park, the shaking stopped. 

The respite lasted only a moment, however, as the quaking began anew, steadily intensifying. The few people in the park at this early hour scattered as the shaking grew strong enough to knock people to the ground. Luckily it was extremely localized, few buildings outside the park reported damage.

Onlookers watched in horror as the earth itself bulged in a field between Carriage Way and the Long Water, pushed upwards by something enormous. The sod and topsoil broke as a head the size of a house came to the surface. A reddish, reptilian creature with huge, floppy ears, a mouthful of jagged yellow teeth and a long, oddly luminescent horn at the end of its nose, something like a rhino. Its eyes were large and alert, possessing a strangely puppy-like quality. It squeezed the rest of its plump bulk out of the hole it had created, shaking the loose dirt off itself in a cloud.

The huge creature blinked its large eyes in the unaccustomed sunlight, oblivious to the panic that was beginning to spread in London. And then, again like some great dog, it folded its haunches and sat quietly on the manicured lawn of Hyde Park, as though awaiting further instructions. 

SEA OF JAPAN

The Wildcat. Panamanian-flagged, crew of nine, primarily Filipino. Captain and first mate both American. A crew of electronic parts destined for the Port of Busan.

She never arrived.

The distress calls were confused. Inane babbling about high winds, a huge pterodactyl, gigantic talons closing over the ship and lifting it into the air before ceasing completely. Both the Japan Coast Guard and ROK Coast Guard received the transmissions and dutifully logged them, with notes suggesting the drunkenness of the crew- after all, what they were suggesting was absolutely ridiculous. Radar reports of something huge in the area were written off as an anomaly. 

Meanwhile, something huge flapped its leathery wings and made its way north, ignoring the screams from the ship gripped firmly in its talons.

KOROLYOV, RUSSIA

It was late morning in the bedroom community to Moscow, and the workday was in full swing. The munitions and aerospace factories were humming along as they always had done. 

No one is really sure who first saw the enormous spiked creature charging into the city on all fours, no one can agree which Soviet-era tower block was the first to be annihilated by the swing of an enormous paw, no one is sure how many died in those first few minutes of shock before the sirens sounded. 

The local police and fire brigades deserve full credit for their rapid evacuation of several tower blocks as the quadrupedal dinosaur-like creature continued to rampage, smashing its horned head and clubbed tail through the concrete blocks like paper. The emergency services were helped by the fact that the gigantic creature was more interested in destroying individual buildings than attacking evacuees. Some of the more foolhardy police commanders goaded their men into emptying their Kalashnikov rifles into the skyscraper-sized creature, but of course it had little effect other than eliciting bellowing honks from the monster. Luckily, the police were largely ignored as the creature seemed entirely focused on destroying buildings.

It continued to move south, into Moscow. For now, all civil authorities could do was try to keep people out of the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, the kaiju invasion is underway! Five of the gangsters have made their moves- the Las Vegas mafia has Kumonga, the cartel controls Kamacuras, Baragon is in London, the yakuza has Rodan, and the bratva has turned Anguirus loose on Moscow! 
> 
> Any guesses on what other monsters might appear or what the other criminals might have planned? And of course, general feedback is welcome!


	3. Nice City You've Got There. . .

DUBLIN, IRELAND

The Minister for Justice's day had taken a hard turn for the worse. 

She had gotten the first news from her secretary about thirty minutes before, who had told her to turn on RTÉ for urgent news from Limerick. The Minister had expected some news about a disaster, true. Perhaps a flood, or a landslide, a riot, a building collapse, even some kind of terrorist attack. 

But when she flipped on the television in her office she certainly did not expect to see a fifty-meter monster kicking over the O'Connell Monument. 

It looked like a child's drawing of a dinosaur come to life. Green and bipedal, with stubby arms but muscular legs and a thick, powerful tail tipped with a small bony spike. Its mottled skin faded to rust red at the throat, underneath a wide slavering jaw. 

Limerick was in a state of panic. The creature had apparently materialized quite literally out of thin air in Pery Square. The Minister had been unable to tear her eyes away from the screen even as she attempted to coordinate a response with the Gardaí. The news was also reporting similar creatures in Moscow and London. “Two major world capitals and then Limerick,” she sighed to herself in a rare moment between telephone calls. “Just our luck.”

Her personal cell phone rang, a nice change of pace from her office líne. Still tranfixed by the news coverage, she answered without bothering to look at the caller ID. “Hello.”

“Top of the morning, minister. How do you like my dinosaur?”

She stiffened at the irreverent tone her caller was taking, glanced at the caller ID to see that there was no number listed. “Who is this?”

“I'm disappointed, minister. Just last month your office referred to me as 'Public Enemy Number One' and now you don't even recognize my voice when I call for a friendly chat. Truly, it hurts.”

She struggled to remember. “McNamara? The gangster?”

“I prefer to be thought of as a 'colorful personality', but 'gangster' works.”

“I don't know if you've noticed but there's something of a national crisis right now, so unless you're calling to turn yourself in-”

“I spent a few thousand euros getting your number, least you could do is listen.”

Her head reeling from both the unprecedented crisis and McNamara's mocking tone, the Minister for Justice made a belated realization of something said earlier in the discussion. “Wait. You said 'your dinosaur', what do you mean by that?”

McNamara chuckled, low and unpleasant on the line. “That's my Gorosaurus there. Thought you might enjoy a little show of what he can do and believe me, the town has never looked better.”

“You control it? Call it off!”

“Oh, I don't think I'll do that just yet,” he said. His voice oozed affable malice. “I think I'm going to enjoy stomping the dirty old town flat, then Gorosaurus is going on a little stroll towards Dublin. And you and I both know there's nothing in your arsenals that can do anything about it.”

The Minister, watching the monster smash through row houses like they were paper, had to concede the point. The Irish armed forces were small and lightly equipped, experienced in overseas peacekeeping missions but not the kind of protracted battle it would take to defeat this monstrosity. “So what is it you're wanting, McNamara? Thugs like you always want to be bought off.”

“Now we're talking,” and she could almost hear the man grinning through her phone. “Five billion euros and full pardon and immunity so I can enjoy a nice peaceful retirement. A bargain, really.”

“This is asinine,” she protested. “The government doesn't have five billion to spare-”

“I'm not interested in excuses,” McNamara said coldly, cutting her off. “That's the price and it is non-negotiable. Now get a pen and paper and write down the details, or a lot more lives are going to be lost.”

STELLENBOSCH, SOUTH AFRICA

The lodge had never seen quite so many foreign guests all at once. It was fairly small, but luxurious and quiet, situated in the rolling hills of South Africa's wine country and offering commanding views. Their usual clientele was well-to-do local businesspeople from Cape Town who simply wanted a weekend away from the city. Not this motley collection of secretive, tough-looking types from all over Africa. Individuals or small groups had checked in from Uganda, Mali, Nigeria, Somalia, Sierra Leone, the Congo, among others. The lodge's staff had provided a small, quiet meeting room for them. Some sort of presentation was about to take place, but as the staff cleared out to provide some privacy they could not help but notice the furtive, distrustful looks the attendees had for one another. 

Dickson Okoro straightened his necktie and shuffled up to the podium as one of his subordinates set up a large television beside him. The invitations had taken the better part of his year of prep time to manage, and had been done at considerable expense and difficulty. After all, representatives of groups like the Lord's Resistance Army, AQIM, and al-Shabaab made themselves difficult to find. Some of the attendees were not even motivated by political or religious ideologies- simply the power-hungry elite waiting for the chance to wear the crown. 

“Esteemed guests,” Okoro began in English. “Thank you all for gathering here today. I appreciate many of you have travelled a long way and you are curious. Your curiosity and patience will know be rewarded.” He motioned to his attendant, who turned on the television. 

The satellite link was not the best, there was noticeable lag and the sound would cut out from time to time. The cameraman, one of Okoro's more trustworthy henchman back home, was untrained and his hand shook. But the picture quality was perfect. Live from lush green fields on the Mambilla Plateau, isolated land Okoro had been careful to acquire as a storage facility. Murmurs spread through the room as the attendees saw the enormous creature.

It was something like a dragonfly, with thick chitinous gray-green armor, a huge toothy maw, wickedly curved claws, and malevolent red eyes. Although it rested on the ground, moving only a little, its size and power was immediately evident. 

Dickson Okoro waited politely for the whispering to die down, confident he had their undivided attention. “I call it Megaguirus. The highest bidder will be free to use it as they like.”

BILOXI, MISSISSIPPI

“Goodness, someone else has one?” Amelia Hawkins noted sourly. It was the middle of the night Mississippi time, but she had been awake already. A lot was riding on today.

She made a face at her phone as she streamed a press conference from the Arizona capital. The governor mobilizing the National Guard, sending evacuation orders for Phoenix. About what one would expect, but with the notable exception that she wasn't behind this. “That traitor. I thought I'd be the only one who got a big'un.” 

However, as she considered, this might actually work to her advantage. United States policy was to not give in to any extortion demands. But with one creature already rampaging around, they might be desperate to avoid a second. And her demands were small and eminently reasonable. 

“A full pardon for Dad,” she said wistfully, looking out the window. She thought of her father, languishing on federal death row in Indiana. The greatest mobster the south had ever seen. Running guns, drugs, liquor, cigarettes, people- anything that could be smuggled, he did it. Until he had made the mistake of killing an undercover ATF agent. 

She had done her best to run the operation in his absence, but she longed to have the old man back, smelling of Jim Beam and handrolled cigarettes, smiling as he spouted off whatever lame “dad joke” he had thought of.

Her resolve set, she leaned back in her chair, focused in on the creature. It was surprisingly easy, but the sensation was difficult to describe- almost an out of body experience, if her body was 50 meters and amphibious.

She didn't need to hurt anyone. Just to be seen and registered as a threat. Swimming around the Gulf ought to be enough.

“Alright,” she said to herself as she settled into the creature's body. “Let them know you're there, Varan.”

PUTOMAYO DEPARTMENT, COLOMBIA

Cultivation in the coca plant is the first step in producing cocaine, and accordingly it has become an entire industry for cartels. Entire organizations were devoted to deforestation and tending of enormous coca fields in the more isolated regions. Tens of thousands were employed in this sector.

The field in Putomayo was one of several owned by this particular cartel, one of Sandoval's chief rivals in production. Only a few thousand acres but managed well, a good yield every season. 

The field was of course protected by armed guards, prepared for the usual sorts of danger: attacks by law enforcement or rival cartels, theft or even an uprising by the poorly paid laborers, even procedures for storms and other natural disasters. 

However, the entire field suddenly collapsing into the earth was not something they had anticipated.

The sudden chasm caught everyone completely off guard- a brief quaking and then the ground just collapsed, leaving dozens of laborers and guards falling, screaming for terror as they plummeted hundreds of feet to their deaths.

It was late at night, and the sleeping quarters were mostly untouched. Casualties were not as heavy as they could have been. A brave few peered over the lip of the enormous pit into the darkness and could just see something moving down there, something lithe and reptilian digging deeper into the earth. 

The creature that would come to be known as Zilla escaped cleanly, leaving only destruction behind.


	4. . . .It Would Be a Shame if Something Happened to It

DUBAI, UNITED ARAB EMIRATES

“We've come a long way from shaking down street vendors on the Chowpatty beach.” 

It would be an understatement to say Ghulam's head was spinning. Like almost everyone in the world with access to a television he had been watching the coverage from London, Moscow, and, um, some city in Ireland with great interest. He had even paid the $10 on his tablet to have exclusive access to Kumonga footage, a pittance really. Ghulam had eyed some of the sides bets for Kumonga but ultimately decided against putting down money. Gambling had never been his specialty. Money laundering, yes. Counterfeiting, yes. Political maneuvering of all sorts. But he still hesitated to put down a few coins. 

At any rate, when JP Husain had called Ghulam into his office he assumed it was for some sort of mundane reason. The usual pleasantries and pouring of tea followed, then Husain very casually revealed that he controlled a monster of his own.

It had taken some time for Ghulam to be fully convinced, but despite his incredulity he had never known Husain to play games and the boss seemed fully lucid and rational. Reluctantly, Ghulam opened his mind to the possibility that he spoke the truth, as fantastic as it may be. He took a sip of his chai, then hazarded a question. “So, boss, um, how shall you use this to your advantage?”

“This is how we shall finally return to India,” Husain said confidently. Of course. His fondest dream since his exile to Dubai began 20 years ago. To finally be welcome in Mumbai again. Stroll down Marine Drive, watch a cricket match at Brabourne Stadium, execute his rivals. 

“How will that work?” Ghulam asked, interested despite his doubts. “We threaten to unleash it upon India unless a pardon is issued, no doubt.”

“No,” Husain said with a dismissive wave. “That's childish. The moment we try to become an even bigger threat to national security there will be commandos in here slitting our throats. I don't intend to be bin Laden.”

“So how does your plan work?”

“All reactions require a catalyst. Imagine some unprecedented disaster happens. Cities are destroyed, lives are lost. Now we both know that no government in the world is prepared for a sixty meter living creature, but how will the average citizen react at the ballot box?”

Realization began to dawn in Ghulam's face. “Of course. An overwhelming motion of no confidence, the ruling party loses big in the next election. And all of our political allies are in the opposition party.”

Husain nodded, allowed himself a satisfied smile. “And with such devastation, how else can they rebuild the roads and schools and hospitals the public so desperately craves without foreign investment? And with an Indian businessman ready and willing to invest in a bright new future, so eager to return to the embrace of his homeland. Really, what choice will they have but to overlook his past indiscretions?” 

Ghulam nodded. “It's brilliant. I must admit it's brilliant. But it only works if no one ever knows you're behind the monster.”

JP Husain nodded. “Yes. Which is why if you say a word to anyone I will have you killed. Let us begin.”

BENGALURU, INDIA

India's third largest city was engulfed in chaos. The bustle of the streets in afternoon had rapidly given way to a human stampede as people fled in blind panic from the nightmare that had emerged from the ground. 

It was difficult for circling news helicopters to make out details amid the dust of collapsing buildings and smoke from rapidly growing fires, but they could make out that it was absolutely massive, a full sixty meters from its two-toed feet to the tip of the star-shaped crest on its head. It looked mostly like some kind of stag beetle, mottled black and yellow, but for the strange metallic appendages it had in place of hands- almost like drills. Far from oblivious to the pandemonium it was creating, though, the yellow eyes of the creature seemed to relish in it. 

The high-rise boom of the last decade was quickly being undone as golden lightning leaped from the star-shaped horn into apartment buildings and office blocks, the focused heat enough to melt concrete at a touch. Office workers burned to death in stairwells as they tried to escape their fate. The local fire brigade bravely rallied and moved into the central business district in a most likely futile effort to control flames and rescue trapped citizens, but the flow of refugees out of the area impeded their progress. 

Husain's campaign to rehabilitate his image began in fire and death and blood under the bright Carnatic sun. 

HONG KONG, PRC

It doesn't take much for an underwater tunnel to be evacuated and closed. Just the merest suggestion of a crack, the smallest possibility of water breaking through. Because once the water begins it will not stop.

There are three crossings of Victoria Harbour, seperating Kowloon from Hong Kong Island. Hong Kong Island itself was densely populated, nearly 1.3 million crammed into 78 square kilometers. There was nowhere to build but up, and so the sksyscrapers were packed together like blades of grass, reaching dizzying vertical heights.

The trouble began with the newest tunnel, the Western Harbour Crossing. Motorists recalled hearing the impact, as though something huge collided with the tunnel. Rumors spread about a ship ramming it, despite the physical impossibility- too deep. Hairline cracks became visible along the walls and ceiling, beginning to spread from what seemed to be a point of impact.

Authorities sprang into action with commendable speed, quickly clearing out the tunnel in an orderly fashion and sending divers to inspect the exterior of the tunnel. Unusual, yes, but what they trained for. There were procedures in place for this sort of thing.

At least until the divers disappeared altogether, failing to return from below.

And the same incident repeated at the Cross-Harbour Tunnel, and then again at the Eastern Crossing. A massive impact causing cracking on the walls. Almost like the blow of a gargantuan fist.

Water began to slowly leak into the tunnels, which were quickly sealed off. Explanations were sought by emergency response teams. 

It wasn't until the first scattered reports of missing boats and swimmers in Victoria Harbour that they began to think outside undersea earthquakes and rogue waves.

And it wasn't until the first videos and photos of a colossal green-haired humanoid figure swimming in the ocean began to spread through social media that the people of Hong Kong Island realized a terrible truth.

They were being deliberately cut off from the rest of the world.

MELBOURNE, AUSTRALIA

“I fuckin' knew it,” Molly Ironsmith said to herself as she stubbed out yet another cigarette on the threadbare couch's already pockmarked upholstery. “Why the hell are space aliens gonna give a big fuckin' monster to some bikie from Melbourne? Nah, mate, gotta be some other mafia drongos out there.” She turned her head from the television (stolen just for the occasion). “Oi, Paddo, run out and get us some takeaway, will ya? We're gonna be watching the telly for a while.” She tossed a few crumpled bills in her subordinate's general direction, not diverting her attention from the latest piece of breaking news- India was now under attack. 

“We just gotta wait a couple days until things really go arse-up,” she said confidently. The other bikies in the room nodded obsequiously. Although the smallest of the men was nearly twice her size they knew better than to contradict Molly Ironsmith. “Wait until the governments are desperate enough to try bloody anything. Then we offer to take care of their little monster problem for a piddling little reasonable charge.” She pulled another cigarette from her worn leather vest. 

“Genius, Molly,” one of the burly bikies demurred. 

“Course it's bloody genius, it's my idea,” she snapped, cigarette waving from her lips. One of her men obediently stepped forward and lit it for her. “Oh, see that?” she said with an excited point at the television. More footage from Moscow- apparently the press had started calling the thing making its way into the city center Anguirus. “Beautiful. We gotta call ours something, yeah? So it's not just that big bloody thing.”

“What did you have in mind, Molly?”

She shrugged. “I dunno. It's a dinosaur and it's big. Maybe something like, uh, Titanosaurus.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who's been enjoying this story! I promise we're almost done with setup and soon the real fun will begin. In case it's not clear, these attacks are happening over a matter of hours so chronologically it's still early in the story.
> 
> Here for any compliments or criticism! Also love to hear what kaiju you'd like to see in the story.


	5. The Best-Laid Plans

FUKUOKA, JAPAN

“I trust the payment is satisfactory?”

The man's Japanese was good, with hardly any trace of accent. Daisuke Homma had heard rumors that his government had schools for that purpose, the better to infiltrate Japan. Or in this case, to deliver payment to yakuza leaders. 

Nevertheless, Homma felt the need to be diplomatic. For now, the Democratic People's Republic of Korea was his best and only customer in his scheme. He bowed slightly. “Yes. Please convey my thanks to your superiors. I hope the electronics met with your needs.”

“Quite,” the North Korean agent replied. His suit and hairstyle were some years out of style.

“What became of the crew of the Wildcat?” Homma inquired. He had no real moral qualms, but an image to maintain. The yakuza enjoyed a certain amount of public approval, enough to rent offices and be listed in the phone book under their own names.

The North Korean agent lifted a single eyebrow. “They were reeducated in the Juche Idea and the benefits of Korean citizenship. When they saw the bounty of the People's Republic they immediately repudiated their previous allegiances.”

The small office was silent as Homma digested what he was told. Somewhere nearby, a freighter sounded a foghorn. The North Korean agent continued unabated. “If it is possible, the latest sanctions and embargoes by the capitalist powers have given us a shortage of coal. Perhaps your, um, courier could see that some is delivered. You would be well compensated.” 

Homma thought on the offer. His position in the yakuza gave him contacts in shipyards, customs, and trade unions all over the Pacific Rim, he had no doubts he would be able to find a shipment of coal. He was hesitant to use Rodan to smuggle two loads in a row, however. The flying creature was too fast for any jets, of course, but the news coming from all over made him wonder if perhaps some form of countermeasures would be devised. 

The idea was simple enough- transport literal shiploads of goods to willing buyers, the old hijacking racket writ large. The trouble was finding customers. There were only so many pariah states in the world. And with a limited customer base, Homma reluctantly nodded. “We will make the arrangements. Is Rodan to deposit the coal at Kaesong once more?”

“Yes,” the North Korean agent responded. “We will have a crew ready to receive.” The Korean gathered a hat and umbrella, headed for the door without saying goodbye. “Good hunting.”

LONDON, UNITED KINGDOM

The famed Savoy Hotel was not doing well. While no formal evacuation orders had been issued, the guests had decided that two miles from the kaiju sitting peacefully in Hyde Park was not nearly far enough. Most of them weren't even bothering to check out, simply grabbing their bags and fleeing.

The staff was doing their best to keep people calm and orderly, valets dashing in and out to bring guests their cars. Not that they would get far, most of London seemed to be in the streets trying to put distance between them and the horned monster. Occasionally, a helicopter would fly overhead or the crowds would be forced to part for APCs or Land Rovers moving towards the park- it seemed the army was setting up a perimeter. 

The general manager of Britain's finest hotel was at the front desk, attempting with little success to impose some order on the chaos. Somewhere in the midst of the shouting and telephone calls and barked orders, the manager became aware of a man at the desk, dressed in a cheap suit and reeking of cigarettes. “Hey there,” the newcomer said with a rakish grin and East End accent. “I'd like the Royal Suite, please, and I'll be wanting room service so make sure the kitchen stays open.”

“Sir,” the manager said with as much patience as he could muster. “Perhaps you are unaware but there is a state of emergency. I am sorry but we are evacuating the hotel and not letting out any rooms at the moment.”

“Well, I thought you might make an exception for me,” the stranger said as he raised a sawed-off double-barreled shotgun. The manager saw other men, similarly dressed in low quality suits, rounding up staff at gunpoint. 

“The authorities will hear about this!” the manager blustered, even as he went to retrieve the keys for the requested suite.

“Oh, see that they do,” the man laughed. “Call Scotland Yard, the PM, anyone else you can think of. Tell them William Staice is here and he wants to talk. But if they try any-fucking-thing, my pet over in Hyde Park is gonna have something to say about it, yeah?”

“Just what is it you're after?” the manager asked, even more indignantly. 

Staice laughed. “I am the once and future king, of course. Leastways, will be once it's made official. In addition to that I'm the right 'ard fuck with a shooter in your face. So you'd best start treating me accordingly, yeah?”

MEXICO CITY, MEXICO

“You may think of this as an appeal to force, gentlemen, and in truth that is not wrong,” Joaquin Sosa continued as he paced around. The grimy, cheap, out of the way restaurant in a less than fashionable suburb of the capitol was an incongruous place for this sitdown. Indeed, the restaurant's breakfast offerings were not quite up to par for the assembled men, some of the most powerful drug lords in all of Mexico. Sosa suspected the mimosa in his hand was made with California prosecco rather than genuine French champagne, but he wasn't going to let that spoil his good mood. “Indeed, let there be no confusion, anyone who opposes a confederation will find their plaza destroyed by my Kamacuras.”

He took a deep sip of his cocktail for emphasis, in the process accidentally confirming his suspicions about its general inferiority. “But imagine what we can all accomplish if we work together. Tijuana, Matamoros, Sinaloa, Michoacán, Juarez, all working together as one. No more petty infighting, no more turf wars. After all, our real enemies are the federal government and the gringos, right? We have a chance to build something, brothers, something Mexico hasn't seen since Gallardo went to prison.”

“With you at the top,” a don from Oaxaca noted, somewhat sourly.

“Well, at the end of the day I'm the one with the giant praying mantis,” Sosa noted with a puckish grin. “Not sure if any of you passed by the Zócalo today. I saw soldiers out there setting up anti-aircraft guns. They're afraid, gentlemen. Kamacuras has done that for us. And if we pool our resources we need never be afraid again.”

“Our resources will soon be taking a hit, Sosa,” called a voice from the back of the room. Sosa recognized the speaker as Ramirez, his opposite number from Culiacán. A year ago, the men would have been happy to shoot one another on sight, but a meeting like this called for diplomacy. 

“Please, Ramirez, what's on your mind?” Sosa asked tolerantly. 

“80% of our money comes from cocaine. We cannot produce it in Mexico, not in any quantity at least,” Ramirez said, his eyes invisible behind the glint of his thick glasses. He was known for his command of facts and figures. “We are therefore dependent on the Colombian cartels, who are able to produce cocaine.”

“There's no laymen in this room, professor,” Sosa scoffed. “Everyone knows this.” 

“Perhaps you are not aware that as of last night Maria Sandoval has announced a 200% increase on the price of cocaine, then,” Ramirez retorted. “Our overhead is tight, we will have to reduce distribution for three to five years while we scale up marijuana and methamphetamine production to compensate for the loss. That may throw a wrench in your plans, Sosa,” he finished dryly. 

Sosa shrugged. “That's unfortunate, but Sandoval is hardly the only person producing cocaine in Colombia. We buy from one of her rivals, if necessary we go to Bolivia or Peru.”

“I've checked with her rivals. Several have reported they've lost entire coca crops in one night. All they have is what's already warehoused. We can buy that short-term, but that won't help us next year. Sandoval is creating a monopoly where she can charge any price she likes.”

Sosa frowned. He hadn't heard any of this. Already he was being undermined. “Lost entire crops? How?”

“Some giant creature burrowing underground,” Ramirez reported, with just a hint of a smirk. “Perhaps you were not the only one gifted with such a blessing, boss,” he finished, practically spitting the last word. An uneasy silence settled over the restaurant as Sosa found himself at a loss for words.

At length he spoke. “Then perhaps Kamacuras should pay a visit down south. And if other men of respect such as myself are receiving this gift, then surely I am not the only person dependent on Colombian cocaine. Reach out to the Jamaicans, the Haitians, the Puerto Ricans, anyone else you can think of that is in distribution. We may need another giant monster on our side.”

NEW ORLEANS, UNITED STATES

None of the reporters gathered on the steps of the John Minor Wisdom Courthouse were quite sure what to expect from this press conference. The presser was not considered high importance by any of the invited agencies- the real story was out in Arizona right now, as Kumonga continued to rampage. Besides, it was absurdly early, the sun only just rising. Only junior reporters or those that had screwed up were on top of this one. It had been called by an Amelia Hawkins- the journalists who had bothered to do some cursory research had discovered she was a gangland figure out in Mississippi, watching over an organization that had been regionally powerful in the 90s but was on a long decline. Surely, this was a waste of time. 

Getting out of her car, Amelia Hawkins scowled as she saw the low turnout. Upstaged by a giant spider. Nonetheless, she had an ultimatum to deliver. She threaded her way up the courthouse steps, trying to make sure all eyes were on her.

“It was in a federal courthouse very much like this one that my father, Carter Hawkins, was sentenced to death in 2009,” she said without preamble. Her Mississippi drawl rang through the morning air, and she saw she had the journalists' attention. “Now, I'm not gonna lie and tell you my daddy was an innocent man. Truth be told, he did some of the things they accused him of. But when the prosecutors and judges use words like 'racketeering' and 'trafficking' what they're talking about is a man doing his best to provide for his family, like a man should. And if there's no honest work for honest men, then they've got to become dishonest men. The people who ought to be locked up in Terre Haute are the ones who saw to it a God-fearing white man had to turn to crime in America.”

Her eyes narrowed as she saw the reporters' bored expressions. Complacent. Not taking her seriously, even though she had been running Mississippi's biggest underworld operation for over a decade. She fought back the bile and continued on. “Now, y'all have heard about the giant monsters in Russia, England, Ireland, flying around down in Mexico, over in India. And more importantly, y'all have heard about the one over in Arizona. That's all anyone wants to talk about, right? That's why I'm here talking to the B team. Well, I'm here to tell you that right this minute there is another one swimming in the Gulf of Mexico.” She squinted a moment, reaching into the kaiju's head with her mind. “Just off the Alabama coast at the moment. It is under my complete mental control from anywhere on the planet. I call it Varan.”

The odd, unbelievable statement caught some attention from the assembled press. Some diligently wrote, others rolled their eyes or fought a chuckle. Two or three, clearly thinking their time was being wasted by a madwoman, just walked away. Amelia was insulted but carried on. “Unless my father is released with a full federal pardon in the next 24 hours, I'll have Varan come ashore at a major city. It's gonna be worse than any hurricane, it's gonna make Sherman's March to the Sea look like a Sunday school picnic-”

So intent was Amelia Hawkins on her threats that she didn't even notice the uniformed NOPD officers until they were already grabbing her by the arms. “Alright lady, it's time to go,” one of them said. “Federal building ain't really the place to be doing this.”

“Goddammit, get your hands off me,” she snarled. “Do you know who I am?”

“Yeah, yeah, there's some nice folks you can talk to at River Oaks Hospital,” one of the officers said in a condescending tone. “How about you come quietly?”

“Show's over, folks, get moving,” the other cop instructed the assembled reporters. “Sorry this nutjob wasted your valuable time.

“These are reporters! What happened to the first amendment, huh?” Amelia Hawkins said. “You'd better stay away from me. If you drag me off, I'm gonna have Varan-”

The officers tightened their grips, dragging her bodily towards their patrol car. She thrashed in their arms. “Lady, if you don't come along we're gonna have to use some force.”

“Would you listen to reason? I'm trying to deliver an ultimatum-”

“Alright, I think that's enough out of you,” one of the patrolmen interjected. Her arms were twisted painfully behind her, and Amelia Hawkins felt the humiliating sensation of handcuffs being closed on her wrists. “We tried to go easy on you, but remember, you did this to yourself, lady.”

Hawkins, teeth grit as she was shoved into the patrol car, whispered three angry and resentful words.

“Varan. Sic 'em.” 

MOBILE, UNITED STATES

There was very little warning. The workday was just beginning in the Alabama port city, most people were focusing on their tools or computer screens.

If anyone in downtown Mobile had happened to glance towards the river, they might have seen the enormous wake cresting over an immense bulk, thick bony spikes breaking the surface of the water. Some did and raised the alarm, and many people were startled to hear civil defense sirens begin to sound.

It was too late, of course. Seconds later, the water broke over the form of a gigantic nightmare standing in the Mobile River. Water ran off its mottled brown scales, the flaps of skin underneath the arms glistening. Its slitted reptilian eyes blinked in the morning sun, and then its mouth opened and it gave a shrill, barking roar, drowning out the sirens.

Onlookers could not believe the speed with which it moved, agilely hopping out of the river and knocking aside towering derricks at the Port Authority, the thick steel crumpling and snapping like matchsticks. In a single step, it crossed Water Street and smashed a lowered shoulder into the walls of Alabama's tallest building, RSA Battle House. Though Varan only reached the 15th of 35 floor, the impact was enough to shatter glass and concrete, leaving a massive gouge in the skyscraper's side. The glass crown and pinnacle of the building visibly wobbled, 745 feet up. Two more massive blows and the entire building began to list, slowly but inexorably toppling. It picked up speed as the supports collapsed under their weight, a roaring avalanche as the building fell across several city blocks. The impact crushed multiple smaller buildings and their occupants, raising a choking cloud of dust over the port city. Mobile's famous smell of magnolia was rapidly being replaced by smoke and blood. Unaffected by the dust, Varan continued deeper into the city, destroying high-rises with careless flicks of the tail.

A second kaiju was loose in the United States.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The rampages continue! Some of the mobsters are still biding their time, but we'll be addressing them soon.
> 
> After this much setup, I'm probably going to spend chapters focusing on just one set of characters in more detail. 
> 
> As always, excited to hear any feedback, good or bad! Thanks for reading.


	6. To The Mattresses

ARIZONA, UNITED STATES

The first military counterattacks on kaiju did not happen quickly. Even before taking the time to confirm the admittedly unbelievable first reports, there was of course a great deal of red tape to address. Like any human endeavor, armies and navies are not immune to internal politics and some hours were lost in “passing the buck”- everyone wanted credit for a success but no one wanted blame for a failure. 

Even then, agreeing on an appropriate course of action took time. This situation was entirely without precedent. No officer training course exists for giant monsters.

Eventually, around eight hours after the first sighting, the United States Air Force was the first to attack. The Kumonga website paid out heavily when the first news images of F-16 Fighting Falcons taking off from Luke Air Force Base outside Phoenix were released. The next bet seemed a no-brainer: whether or not the Air Force would successfully destroy the giant spider in the desert. The vast majority of gamblers had scoffed to themselves and faithfully placed their money on the Air Force.

The giant spider had slowed to a more leisurely pace as it traversed the rough terrain of the Sonoran Desert, and the fighters intercepted it near the rather picturesque ghost town of Swansea. The squadron of F-16s engaged, firing Maverick air-to-ground missiles. An enormous target on a largely flat surface. No way to miss.

The majority of the missiles were on target. The drones and cameras on the Kumonga website had fallen back to a safer distance to avoid the military, but some still managed to transmit. It was broadcasted into living rooms, offices, restaurants, conference rooms all over the country. More than one person cheered as they saw the impacts on Kumonga's brown and yellow body, the orange and black blossoms of explosions that seemed to engulf the entire giant spider. For a moment it was engulfed in flame and smoke, hit with the same kind of firepower that had destroyed entire tank battalions in Vietnam and Iraq. Even the pilots got in on the act, exchanging congratulations and compliments.

And the entire nation fell into a collective stunned silence as Kumonga emerged from the explosions unharmed.

Undeterred, the fighter squadron made a second attack run, hitting Kumonga with yet another wave of Maverick missiles. Again, hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of technology functioned perfectly, striking the kaiju with unerring accuracy. The detonation of the warheads obscured the creature once again, but this time the fiery explosions were met with few cheers.

And once again Kumonga simply stepped out of the inferno, not even breaking pace. 

Now somewhat desperate, the fighter squadron decreased speed and altitude and made a strafing run, somewhat unorthodox for the F-16. They raked Kumonga's hide with 20mm shells, more than enough to shred most targets to bits. 

The heavy rounds simply flattened against the kaiju's skin and fell harmlessly to earth. 

Demoralized, the fighters were low on fuel and ammunition and began their return flight to Luke AFB. They radioed their lack of success and recommended further attacks on the monstrosity. 

A second squadron of F-16s was hastily prepped, and Davis-Monthan AFB near Tucson contacted to prepare a squadron of A-10 Thunderbolts, popularly nicknamed the Warthog- it was hoped their more specialized set of weaponry might prove more effective.

However, it was clear from the pilot's reports that Kumonga was moving directly towards the city of Phoenix and the 4.7 million inhabitants there. 

MOSCOW, RUSSIA

In Russia, the delay on military action against Anguirus was more practical than political. Military units were stationed within the capitol itself, a preventative measure against a coup. The 1st Guards Tank Army was located in Odintsovo, on the southern outskirts of Moscow. They quickly mobilized and established a perimeter at the Moskva River, preparing an expeditionary force to direct confront the armadillo-like monster.

However the problem was Anguirus itself. The kaiju had moved out of Korolyov and into the neighboring district of Mytishchi, dashing the hopes of military planners that it might be confronted in the undeveloped swamps of Losiny Ostrov National Park. In contrast to the rampages in other cities, Angurius did not march in one direction like Megalon or loop in circles to revel in destruction like Gorosaurus did in Limerick. Rather, the four-legged beast moved slowly and deliberately, almost delicately. It used its paws and tail to destroy individual buildings, making sure they were knocked over to the last brick before moving on to the next one. 

The slow pace had the advantage of making it simple to evacuate the district, however, and elements of the 4th Guards Tank Division were able to advance north into Mytishchi. The wide boulevards of the suburban district were more than accommodating to the T-80 tanks. 

However, the tankers soon found themselves in a tactical nightmare. The Soviet-era apartment blocks and newer buildings cut off sightlines from the ground, and heavy amounts of smoke and suspended dust hung in the air. Rubble and abandoned vehicles made it difficult to navigate the streets. Experienced tank commanders usually avoid urban environments for these exact reasons, but they needed heavy firepower to stand a chance against Anguirus. 

Unfortunately, in the general chaos of the urban warzone, the tank crewmen couldn't even see Anguirus until it was virtually on top of them. They fought bravely, firing their 125 mm guns at nearly point blank range. A prolonged cat and mouse battle extended for some hours, with Anguirus suddenly appearing out of the thick gray smog or tearing through a building to catch tanks off guard, smashing them under its massive clawed feet. Their shells did little good, however, and the 4th Division suffered heavy losses. Stray rounds impacted on buildings, causing destruction and fires in their own right.

Eventually, however, the 4th had no choice but to withdraw. Reinforcements were on the way, however- Anguirus had to be killed before it could destroy all of Moscow.

BENGALURU, INDIA 

The Brahmos is the fastest cruise missile in the world. A joint development between India and Russia, it can be launched from 650 kilometers away and reliably hit a target less than 5 meters in size. It could be fitted with a nuclear warhead or conventional explosives. Undoubtedly, it is one of the most advanced weapons in India's arsenal, an enormous technological achievement and justifiable point of pride. 

The INS Kochi, a guided missile destroyer off the coast of Karnataka, fired a salvo of five Brahmos missiles at Bengaluru. Some admirals and politicians argued that was too much. That one would surely be enough to kill Megalon. That the missile strike would cause too much collateral damage to the city and what civilians might remain. 

At any rate, once again on live television, the five missiles slammed into Megalon's torso at well above the speed of sound. They worked perfectly, even better than in projections, staying in a tight group and detonating almost simultaneously with a report that could be heard even miles away over the roar of the flames that once were Bengaluru. The sheer impact conspired with the warheads to even knock Megalon off its feet, the enormous creature flung backwards to smash into the ground with a reverberating crash.

And then, to the horror of any and all who cared to watch the missile strike live on Republic TV or India Today or even local Kannada-language programs, Megalon got back to its two-toed feet. It shook its head like a boxer who had taken a powerful blow and brushed dust off its drill hands but on the whole it was entirely unscathed. 

The news had more to report, of course. More missile strikes planned. Tanks and artillery and warplanes moving in to the area. Neighboring districts to be evacuated. They even spared a few seconds to Colombian Super Tucanos failing to hurt Zilla in the jungle and Changhe helicopters with the Chinese Navy dropping depth charges in Victoria Harbour to no effect. 

In all, though, one thing was becoming clearer by the second: conventional weaponry was largely ineffective against kaiju.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think anyone actually expected the world's military forces to actually defeat the kaiju. But hey, they had to at least try, right? It's a time-honored tradition of any giant monster movie.
> 
> I'm not a Tom Clancy type, and I don't expect to hold an audience hostage while I count rivets on every warship. I know that's not what any Godzilla fan is here for. But as I said earlier, I want to at least partially do a realistic examination of how the world will handle giant monsters and for this chapter that meant doing a little cursory research on military forces. I know it's not everyone's cup of tea so I won't do a lot of that (unless people feel strongly about it).


	7. The Man Who Would Be King

LONDON, UNITED KINGDOM

The lobby of the Savoy Hotel had turned into something of a human beehive. Staice and his men were comfortable up on the fifth floor of the hotel, having occupied the luxurious suites. Enough staff had been retained to meet their whims: expensive meals, drinks, whatever crass bit of enjoyment they could imagine. The Metropolitan Police, overworked by the appearance of a giant monster in Hyde Park, had at first treated it as a nuisance. However, Staice had demonstrated his control over Baragon with a few simple displays, ordering Baragon to lift a leg or roar on cue. Enough to convince the responding officers.

The word had spread up the chain of command and now as evening was falling the first floor was quickly filling with various government agents. Soldiers, the Met, National Crime Agency, Home Office, agencies and ministries and groups no one had ever heard of. Police black mixed freely with camouflage with bespoke Savile Row suits. Every few minutes a few people would clump together for frantic and whispered conferences, repeating information that was already known. 

No one quite knew what to do about the man upstairs or the monster two miles away. 

Plenty of people were just milling around the various small clusters, listening to snippets of discussion and offering suggestions. Some sentences carried above the general din.

“We could just rush the stairs and sort the buggers out. We've got dozens of squaddies and peelers down here with automatic weapons, those bloody Cockneys won't have a chance with their little shotguns.”

“Don't be daft. A direct attack invites retaliation on London as a whole.”

“The M1, M25, M11- all clogged. Evacuating London will take weeks at this rate.”

“Can you believe the bloody cheek? He's asking to be crowned king.”

“The bleeding monster is just sitting in the park like a housecat, how do we even know it's dangerous?”

Almost unnoticed among the carnival atmosphere, a man in expensive tweeds wound his way through the clumps of officials before slipping into the kitchen. He was older than most here, and his family name older yet. He had a long career behind him at Thames House. The man in the tweeds had faced down the Soviets, the Chinese, the IRA, al-Qaeda, no shortage of enemies of the state. People the average man on the street never even heard about. 

And he was not going to have his work undone by some low-born bastard from Whitechapel putting on airs. Granted, a giant dinosaur was a new one to the man in the tweeds. But there was one tried and true solution that had served him well before.

He gently ordered the policewoman guarding the kitchen door aside with a glance. Class always tells. The man in the tweeds wrinkled his nose at being somewhere as low-class as a kitchen, but his business here was brief. He strode through authoritatively as the Savoy's world-famous cooks frantically prepared meals for Staice's crew. Finally, the man with the tweeds made his way to the executive chef. “That is the guest's meal,” he said flatly. It was not a question, merely a request for confirmation. The chef merely nodded. “Stand back, please.”

The man with the tweeds sneered as he looked at the meal. A steak and potatoes. Not even a particular good cut of steak. So dreadfully common. And Staice, the common gangster, expected the House of Windsor to abdicate for him. A royal lineage preceding the Magna Carta to be undone for some little Cockney bastard with a pet sitting on the throne with the Sovereign's Scepter in one hand and a bottle of Tesco vodka in the other. Never. The man in tweeds selected a small but sharp paring knife from the kitchen block, carefully slit open his lapel. There, as in all of his clothing, was a small vial. A precaution in case of capture, courtesy of Her Majesty's Government. He carefully unscrewed the lid of the vial, making sure not to get any of the contents on his hands or even breathe in too heavily. He upended it, watching the liquid roll over the surface of the steak and be absorbed into the meat. Good.

The man in tweeds looked back to the chef, who had chosen to turn his back- no self respecting chef would want to see his dish tampered with, even for what might be considered a good reason. The two shared a brief nod. The chef plated the food and covered it, motioned to a nearby waiter. 

Now all the man in tweeds had to do was wait.

THE ROYAL SUITE

“Pint o' lager for ya, Will.”

“Oi, mate, better get used to calling me Your Highness,” William Staice said as he accepted the beer. “It's coming, innit. Don't worry, lads, I'll make sure you're looked after. Gonna make you Earl of Horseshitshire or something.” 

All of Staice's cronies laughed. He could get used to this kind of high life. Growing up on a council tower block he had been told he was no one, he would never be respected. The drugs and protection rackets had helped, of course. But Baragon was his ticket to proving them all wrong. “King William I,” he said out loud, savoring the sound.

“Uh, it'd be William V, innit,” said one of his men. The man shrank as Staice glared at him. “Uh, just saying. Already been four other King Williams.”

“Maybe I'll change my name then,” Staice shrugged. “Don't want anybody confusing me with some other dead geezer.”

There was a knock at the door, and after a quick frisk Staice's guards admitted a rather frightened-looking waiter who wordlessly left a room service trolley and covered dish before fleeing from the suite. “Fantastic,” Staice said. “My supper.”

He grabbed the covered plate and sat down to eat the steak. “You know, we have to get you some class,” he said conversationally as he cut a few bite-size pieces for himself. “Maybe we get some tailors up here to get you some suits. Nutter or Boateng, one of the good 'uns. There's nowhere to go but up,” he promised as he took his first bite of delicious medium rare Kobe steak. “Nowhere at all.”

It was on his third bite that the pain began. A burning in his stomach and a numbness in his fingers and toes. He coughed, tried to ignore it and take a sip of water. But it only got worse, the pain intensifying as he fell from his chair to the plush carpet. His men rushed to his side but Staice ignored them as he doubled up, clutching his stomach as the dead feeling crept up his arms and legs. He didn't speak, but reached out mentally, his thoughts spanning two miles to Hyde Park.

“Baragon. . . help me. . .”

HYDE PARK 

The civil and military authorities had balked at the idea of placing any tanks or heavy artillery in the heart of London. It would take days of nonstop effort to fully evacuate the city, not to mention the historical buildings in the area that would be placed at risk from such weaponry. As such, until London was fully evacuated the park was surrounded by an infantry battalion. Their orders were simple: observe and report. While there had been some palpable tension at first, most of the squaddies saw it as a fairly boring task. It wasn't like Moscow or Bengaluru or Limerick, this monster hadn't down any damage other than a great big hole in an empty field. It just sat on the manicured lawns of Hyde Park like a sleepy dog. They had set up their heavy machine guns and automatic grenade launchers and Javelin missiles in car parks and rooftops and the windows of overpriced flats. Now as the shadows grew longer they settled into cups of tea and cigarettes. 

The relative peace was broken, however, as the monster in Hyde Park suddenly sat up and gave a sharp cry. Like a dog hearing its master's voice. The soldiers scrambled to their weapons as the creature regained its feet and shook dirt from its haunches. 

For a few minutes, Baragon was subjected to the full and concentrated fire of a rifle battalion. But the fusillade of anti-tank rockets, mortar shells, fragmentation grenades, and small arms fire did nothing to stop or even slow down the creature. Instead, Baragon simply ignored the soldiers as it broke into a four-legged gallop east.

Buildings crumbled under the creature's momentum as it ran to its master, paying no heed to streets. Nelson's Column was broken into pieces by a careless foot as it galloped along the Strand, obeying the summons of its delirious, pain-wracked master. 

But Staice was in too much pain to register the shaking of enormous footsteps as the beast drew near, or to tell it when to stop. 

Baragon eagerly charged forwards, and the historic Savoy Hotel broke and crumbled like any other building at its touch. The walls and ceilings collapsed, crushing all within under countless tons of stone and concrete. 

Just as a falling chunk of rubble broke Staice's skull into hundreds of pieces, a fog seemed to lift from Baragon's brain. It did not know where it was or what it was doing.

In its confusion and lacking any intelligent planning, it lashed out upon all of London like a scared animal.

PHOENIX, UNITED STATES

Nearly twelve hours had passed since the first sighting of a kaiju. Lunchtime in Phoenix.

The governor of Arizona had announced an evacuation order for the city, but in spite of the overwhelming evidence many had disregarded the existence of Kumonga as some kind of “liberal hoax” and remained behind. Some had more noble intentions, of course, choosing to stay to protect their property or family members physically unable to leave. Not to mention the practical reasons that four hours was hardly enough time to escape such a large city. The end result, however, was that nearly 80% of the city's population was still there when Kumonga hit the city limits.

It charged in along the 60, a mixed force of National Guard and State Police stationed at the 303 intersection proving pathetically unable to stop it with rifle fire. Thankfully, it hardly diverged from its path on the roadway as residents cowered in their homes, watching the enormous spider run through Sun City, Peoria, and Glendale.

In a few minutes Kumonga was upon the cluster of high-rise condos, convention centers, and wide boulevards that was Downtown Phoenix. Helplessly, those trapped inside the glass and steel skyscrapers watched as it approached. They could do nothing but await their fate.

But Kumonga did not lift one of its eight legs to crush buildings. It did not bite or thrash or stomp as it squeezed down the streets or even as it crawled up the sheer side of Chase Tower. Some took the opportunity to flee on foot, but others watched and waited out of curiosity as the giant spider mounted the roof of the city's tallest building, reaching towards the blazing noonday sun.

And from its vantage point, the spider soon began to spin its web.

The strands shot from the spider's mouth with astonishing range and fell all over the downtown core, blocking roads and other exit points. Some enterprising individuals tried to cut through the wrist-thick strands of webbing with knives and machetes, but found their blades would simply break against it. The webbing was quite literally stronger than steel.

Those who had chosen not to flee found themselves regretting it as the webbing on Downtown Phoenix grew thicker and more elaborate. They were prisoners of Kumonga.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! That covers the first 12 hours or so of the kaiju invasion, and the first of the gangsters to fall. In case it's not clear, when a kaiju's telepathic host dies the monster they are bonded with simply reverts to animal instinct. In Baragon's case, it rampages mindlessly.
> 
> After this chapter, we're going to have a brief time skip, just a couple of days, to bring the plot moving forwards. Soon the gangsters will start eyeing one another enviously and the world is going to figure out ways to better fight back. Hope you're excited for it!


	8. K-Day Plus Two

IRELAND

It is perhaps odd to historians that Ireland, of all countries, should be the ones to develop the most successful military strategy for confronting kaiju with conventional forces. On paper, the Irish possessed one of the weakest military forces of any developed nation, one that had not fought a significant battle since the Siege of Jadotville in 1961. After the utter failures of Russian, American, Indian, Chinese, and British forces to eliminate kaiju most military planners assumed it was a hopeless task. Surely the Irish forces, with no armor, limited artillery and aircraft, and only a handful of troops could never hope to defeat Gorosaurus. For two full days they had not even confronted the beast as it rampaged through Limerick, its suburbs, and the surrounding areas of County Clare. They focused their energies on raiding properties owned by Eamon McNamara in the hopes of capturing him. Alas, this strategy had yielded no real results.

After two days of stomping around Shannonside, McNamara had ultimately realized the Irish government had no intention of honoring his demands. Gorosaurus finally pivoted and began the march east down the long road to Dublin, stomping through green fields and bucolic villages. Focus immediately turned towards evacuating the capital city; not only the 1.4 million inhabitants but the irreplaceable things within. Lifesaving specialized medical equipment and drugs that could not be found elsewhere in the country, historical items, priceless artwork by great masters, holy relics of the Catholic Church, vital government documents- the government insisted all of these would be moved to safety. In a piece of genuine altruism or savvy political theater (to this day no one is quite sure which) the Taoiseach pledged to be on the last transport out of the city. This increased the pressure on military and civil authorites to complete the complete evacuation of Dublin on schedule.

There is no shortage of heroic and generous stories from the evacuation effort. The Oireachtas had declared a state of emergency with the intent of requisitioning privately owned transport for the effort but it ultimately proved unnecessary. So many private citizens (and not only Irish, with a great deal of support coming from over the water) volunteered their own cars, trucks, boats, and aircraft that ultimately some were turned away. The good people of Dublin were spirited away, along with the indispensable items that could not be left behind. 

However, none of this would been possible without the Irish Army buying time. In other circumstances Ireland might have appealed to the British or American military for aid, but both were occupied by their own kaiju. And so, they had little choice but to deploy their own meager manpower. Tacticians quickly decided that there was no chance whatsoever of outright destroying Gorosaurus- if much larger and more advanced powers could not accomplish that then it was unlikely they could. The Irish military instead settled on a strategy widely known as “the three Ds”- distract, disorient, and delay. Some of the uniformed humorists referred to it as “Dubliners don't die”. The three Ds would later evolve into a generally accepted strategy for military forces the world over. 

All along the long road to Dublin, the military staged seemingly random, irritating, small scale attacks, conducted from range. A smattering of artillery shells directed at the kaiju's face to blind and and discombobulate, before the battery moved somewhere else. Low swooping attacks from Ireland's handful of Pilatius propeller warplanes, firing machine guns and rockets and buzzing annoyingly close. Choking smoke from airburst mortar shells, after dark dazzling light displays from flares. Near Ballybrophy a specially prepared train of fuel cars was exploded practically at Gorosaurus' feet, bruning its skin and causing it to grope blindly. The troops bought valuable minutes by peppering the creature from well-disguised machine gun nests, causing it to wander off course in search of an annoyance to crush underfoot. 

In all, Gorosaurus ended up reaching the outskirts of Dublin several hours later than its initial speed had led onlookers to believe. It was greeted by a ghost town. The Taoiseach, true to his word, was aboard the very last Garda helicopter to leave the city. Gorosaurus rampaged, but the handful of government observers and journalists who volunteered to remain behind in the beleaguered city (fewer than forty people, all told) could see the creature's lack of enthusiasm as it kicked at Leinster House and smashed its tail against the Spire. 

Off in his hideout, McNamara knew this was a hollow victory at best. He might destroy buildings through Gorosaurus, true, but a city and a country was much more than that. They had proven they would not be intimidated, and because of that he held no power.

McNamara realized he would have to recalculate. 

GEORGE TOWN, CAYMAN ISLANDS

“So it's agreed then, Mr. Campbell,” Joaquin Sosa said as he leaned back in his seat. “$25 million and East Coast distribution rights.” 

“Fair deal,” Campbell observed. “Together we mash up the bumbaclot what thinks she can gouge the price of white.” Sosa's lips moved as he worked out exactly what had just been said, before smiling and nodding in agreement. The negotiations between the Mexican gangster and his Jamaican counterpart had gone surprisingly well. The two men had a passing knowledge of one another, but the initial phone contact and then the meeting at this neutral Caribbean midway point had gone incredibly smoothly. Sosa and Campbell both found they genuinely enjoyed the other's company, and the hastily thrown together talks at this resort were marked by joking and chatter. 

The fact that they had similar interests was also crucial. Both were largely dependent on South American cocaine. Zilla had been busy destroying entire crops in Colombia, Peru, Bolivia, and Venuzeula, disappearing underground before any significant military forces could be brought to bear. Sandoval had only left her own untouched, positioning herself to be the sole supplier of cocaine and able to charge any extortionate price she wanted. They had to put a stop to it or they would be in her thrall. And so a team-up was necessary. 

“One last thing,” Campbell cotinued. “My beastie can't be doing no flying, so maybe it's best if yours gives him a ride down to Colombia, yeah? I'll let you know just where he's hiding.”

“Certainly doable,” Sosa said affirmatively. “I have a feeling we will make an excellent team, Mr. Campbell.” He extended his hand for a warm handshake, then signaled to one of his men to pour drinks. “A toast,” he proposed to Campbell. In a symbolic gesture, a shot of Jamaican rum was placed in front of Sosa and Mexican tequila in front of Campbell. Both men smiled broadly, lifting their glasses. “To our friendship.”

“To cocaine,” Campbell said with a grin, tossing back the tequila in one go. 

HONG KONG, PRC

Hong Kong Island had been under a state of siege for the last two days. While some of the wealthy elite had been able to flee in chartered helicopters before the airspace was closed, the vast majority of the population was stranded by the closed tunnels and ferries. Whatever was out there had taken to pulling down the occasional boat, and ant-submarine aircraft has proved ineffective.

The civil authorities had done what they could to prepare, establishing emergency shelters and temporary hospitals. Limited numbers of Marines had been flown in, but infantry units with limited access to fuel and ammunition could not be expected to defend the island.

When the shaggy green-haired ogre finally lumbered ashore at the Central and Western Promenade after two days of siege, it was met with less terror and more tired resignation. Everyone had expected this at some point. 

It left enormous footprints in the green lawns of the Promenade and Tamar Park as it strolled south, stopping directly outside the high-rise buildings of the Central Government Complex. It stood there patiently, making no hostile moves, even as civil servants evacuated the building, gawking at Gaira.

As Tamar was evacuated as a precaution against the stationary monster, a message went out. Videos were posted on social media, triad gunmen forced their way into radio and television studios. They had a recording from Samuel Wu with a simple message.

“Hong Kong Island is no longer subject to the laws and customs of the People's Republic of China.”

KAMPALA, UGANDA

It was a sight that was becoming sadly common the world over. 

The insectoid flying monster descended onto the capital without warning, driving panicking masses into the streets. This time, however, the destruction was targeted, not random. Megagurius smashed into specific buildings, lifting into the air, carefully, looking around, and then dropping its bulk onto the next. The Parliament Chambers. Inspectorate of Government Towers. Various government buildings. Notable mosques. 

Dickson Okoro's auction had declared a winner: the Christian fundamentalist sect known as the Lord's Resistance Army. Undermanned and pushed out of Uganda, they were no longer considered a serious threat. 

Megaguirus had changed that overnight.

PORT SAID, EGYPT

The Suez Canal is considered by many to be one of the most important waterways in the world. The connection between the Atlantic and Indian Oceans is a surprisingly narrow cut through the inhospitable desert, terminating at the city of Suez at the southern end.

The northern entrance, on the Mediterranean, is the cosmopolitan city of Post Said, immortalized by Kipling as a place where even the most unlikely of chance meetings will occur. And the most unlikely meeting of all ruined the quiet afternoon.

The creature measured an incredible 150 meters long, its graceful serpentine body covered with blue-green scales and a row of bony spikes along its back. It had four small, seemingly underdeveloped grasping feet. A mane of sharp barbs surrounded its cruel face, with malevolence in its yellow slitted eyes.

It undulated ashore, ignoring point-blank fire from naval and coast guard vessels patrolling the harbor as it crushed the elegant old houses unique to Port Said. The kaiju did not stray too fair inland, but cause no shortage of misery in the old city as it deliberately pushed rubble from buildings and the hulks of ships into the relatively shallow waters of the canal, creating massive dangers for any ship that might try to use it. It would take months of effort to undo the damage done in minutes. 

The grand elegance of Port Said was undone, the salt air tinged with fear and smoke. The Suez Canal, one of two entryways to the Mediterranean, was no longer safe. 

GIBRALTAR

For centuries, the tiny strip of British-owned land situated between Spain and Morocco had guarded the narrow Strait of Gibraltar, the western passage into the Mediterranean Sea. The Rock of Gibraltar was once an imposing fortress. In recent years, however, the military presence had diminished somewhat, the destroyers and corvettes replaced by luxury yachts and cruise ships. A dense town at the foot of the Rock catered to the whims of tourists.

The Royal Gibraltar Regiment, along with the RAF and Navy forces stationed there, had been on full alert following Baragon's attacks but few if any expected any actual trouble. After all, they were so far from the British Isles, how could any trouble possibly make its way here?

Most of them cursed that thought in hindsight once the enormous blood-red lobster came out of the blue Mediterranean waters and went to work. A full 50 meters long and weighing thousands of tons, it had little difficulty smashing buildings or pulling ships under the water. Its razor sharp claws cut neatly through the hulls of ships, its scarlet chitinous exoskeleton was proof against the machine guns and anti-tank rockets the local forces brought to bear. 

The raid was quick and efficient, Ebirah returning to sea a mere half and hour later. Hundreds of dead and wounded were left behind, along with millions of pounds of damage. The military installations were especially damaged- valuable British signals intelligence, facilities to service submarines, a major airstrip. Ebirah's attack sent a clear message- no one was getting through the Strait of Gibraltar. 

In combination with the simultaneous attack at Port Said, it was grimly apparent the entire Mediterranean Sea was at the mercy of the two kaiju. A body of water with enormous strategic and commercial importance held hostage along with the hundreds of millions of people who lived along it. The twenty-one countries bordering it waited with bated breath.

LONDON, UNITED KINGDOM

Priya would call herself an art lover. Professionally, she was an accountant, but her shelves were filled with books on the subject and many of her evenings and weekends were spent in museums and lectures. So when the call went out for volunteers to search the ruins of the British Museum for survivors or any exhibits that could be salvaged, she immediately raised her hand. Better than sitting among hundreds of other newly homeless Londoners in a hastily erected shelter.

The danger had passed for now- Baragon had moved north, last she heard was that the RAF was hitting it yet again outside Coventry an hour or two back. She doubted it would do much of anything, the military had been fighting a running battle with the reptilian creature through the South and now the Midlands for two full days now. Baragon showed no signs of stopping in spite of all the bombing, shelling, strafing, barraging, and shooting Her Majesty's forces had laid upon it. Luton, Northampton, and Rugby were all smoking piles of wreckage in the kaiju's wake and it looked as though Coventry would be next. 

At any rate, Priya found herself in a high-visibility vest and clutching a long pole as she sifted through broken glass, chunks of concrete, and pieces of rebar with the rest of the volunteers. She was devastated to find the British Museum had taken a direct hit from Baragon's tail and almost entirely collapsed. Many artifacts and works of art were feared lost. Priya could feel a palpable sense of loss as she thought of the many exhibits the world would never see again. She used the pole to pick through the rubble, hoping against hope that something made have made it. A painting, a sculpture, a book, something intact. 

When the glint first caught her eye, Priya thought it was maybe another piece of broken glass. But this was different. Metallic, but not like the jagged hunks of steel from the building. She bent down to examine it. A little comma-shaped bead, with a long tail. As she picked it up she could have sworn it glowed orange for a moment, but maybe it was a trick of the light. It felt warm. Not in a way like it had been exposed to the sun or the fires that had swept through London. 

In a way like touching a living thing.

Priya suddenly felt hope springing inside her, unbidden but not unwelcome. A feeling that in spite of the current miseries, good would prevail. A feeling that things would work out.

A feeling of being guarded by something greater.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay, what with the holidays and all. Humanity scores its first Pyrrhic victory in Ireland, but two new kaiju appear in the Mediterranean (belonging to the Camorra and the Corsicans, who as you might have guessed are working together). And teases of more to come, not all of them from Toho. . .


	9. Tooth and Claw

CORK, IRELAND

“. . .while it may seem fantastic, the Irish government is positive that blame lies with persons in the world of organized crime,” the President of Ireland continued. The press conference was surprisingly well attended by members of the world press. Representatives from as far as Japan, China, Australia, the US, and others were in attendance. After all, Ireland was the first country to “defeat” one of the kaiju. Might as well attend a press conference on the steps of the country's temporary capitol at Cork City Hall. “But the blame for these disasters lies with mobsters beyond the state's control. For example, Eamon McNamara, Ireland's gambling king, contacted us to request a king's ransom. When refused, McNarmara destroyed Limerick and then Dublin. While we do not no have such evidence, we would suggest that similar personages are responsible for the destruction of such cities as London, Moscow, Bangalore, Phoenix, and of course Limerick and Dublin.” 

Some conspiracy theorists might not have given it credence due to being delivered by the President rather than the Taoiseach, but ultimately the message was received as a complete bombshell throughout the world. Of course! Cities being specifically targeted by gangsters made so much more sense than enormous animals lashing out of animal instinct. Of course no one was willing to think they had been targeted at random, it made so much more sense they were targeted out of jealousy, that criminals, wanted to target their lifestyle. 

It was a thought people could comfort themselves with.

BANGKOK, THAILAND

“Back off, coppers!”

It was perhaps not the most original rejoinder but the shots from his Czech pistol made up for the hackneyed phrases Arun Chun spat at the Royal Thai Police as he fired on them from behind an overturned roulette table at the San Francisco Club, one of Rambuttri Village's finest nightclubs. Chun had thought himself untouchable, Thailand's top chao pho. He had started off with opium trading in the 70s, surely the decades of diversifying into human trafficking, gambling, protection, loan sharking, and political corruption had made him absolutely indispensable to the local economy. 

He was suddenly disabused of that notion when a veteran officer (one who happened to be on his personal payroll) managed to flank him and put a .45 round into his skull. After fifteen minutes of desperate shootout Arun Chan died instantly, unable to put another thought in his head. He was among the lucky few.

The same story was repeating itself with minor variations in Jakarta, Glasgow, Nairobi, Tel Aviv, Chongqing, Amsterdam, Montreal, Los Angeles, Cape Town, Karachi, Auckland, Odessa, Buenos Aires, Busan, Istanbul, and dozens of other cities. Within minutes of the Irish press conference there had been not only well-intentioned but misguided police trying to prevent another rampage but also community-minded vigilantes and even rivals trying to make a difference. Once it was widely known that local gangsters controlled the rampaging beasts who destroyed major cities a wave of gang-related violence spread throughout the world, using firearms, knives, explosives, and anything else that came to hand. Police acting against gangs, civilian vigilantes against gangs, and even gangs against gangs in opportunistic campaigns to cash in on public goodwill for territory or prestige. Suspicion, fear, and paranoia replaced actual evidence.

The ensuing shootouts and bombings and stabbings might had been front page news in a different time, when tens of thousands weren't dying at a whim from gangsters. Many of the people involved genuinely felt they were doing a public service by striking out against organized crime. Others, more deeply involved, saw the chance to move into new turf. 

Hundreds or even thousands died in cities never even touched by a giant monster.

MEDELLIN, COLOMBIA

At least this time there had been some warning. 

The radar blip was first spotted off the southern coast of Jamaica, rapidly travelling south over the blue waters of the Caribbean towards the Colombian coast. Air traffic controllers worked desperately to move aircraft out of the path of the enormous unidentified flying object barreling towards Colombia at Mach One.

The first visual contact came over the coastal farming town of Arboletes. It was a curious sight, indeed- there seemed to be a gigantic preying mantis, such as had been seen over Mexico two days previously. But dangling beneath it, clutched in its clawed feet, was a second and hitherto unknown kaiju. It looked like an enormous cuttlefish, blue-gray in color, with blazing yellow eyes with red pupils staring back down at the people.

The military had been on high alert since the recent raids on coca fields in Putomayo, Meta, and Vichada. However, they were ill-prepared for attack from the air. The duo met a few token surface-to-air missiles on their tour of Colombian airspace, but were not deterred from their southward charge in the slightest.

The news was quickly broadcast on television and radio, especially as it became more and more clear they were making a beeline for Medellin. Medellinense were urged to take cover in basements and underground garages. 

In the upscale residential district of El Poblado, Maria Sandoval was calm. Looking out over the city for the window of her high-rise apartment building she closed her eyes and reached out across space, touching the mind of Zilla. Her little pet, thankfully not too far away over in Choco. It began the subterranean trip- burrowing through the earth was so much less hassle than travelling overland. It wouldn't get to Medellin before the two monstrous assassins arrived, but not too long afterwards. Sandoval could tell she was being forced into a confrontation by someone disappointed by her efforts to build a monopoly. She wasn't sure who. But what harm could there be in taking the bait? She would crush them.

In fact, she was so determined to watch the battle herself she ignored the advice of her sicarios and chose to stay in her high-rise with its big bay windows. She poured herself a whiskey. The good stuff from Scotland she had been saving. She was looking forward to this.

Kamacuras and Gezora arrived in Medellin shortly afterwards. The Mexican and Jamaican gangsters looking through their eyes were unfamiliar with the city, so they simply landed where they found the most impressive buildings- Central Medellin, with its skyscrapers, shopping malls, cathedrals, and museums. 

Kamacuras released Gezora a thousand feet above the city, timing the drop perfectly for the giant cuttlefish's rubbery bulk to drop onto Medellin's tallest skyscraper, the Coltejer Building. The needle-shaped office tower disintegrated under the impact, sending glass raining for blocks. Kamacuras landed more gracefully on the nearby Palace of Culture, stabbing its scything arms through the building's elegant dome and ripping it in two like an overripe melon. 

The two kaiju continued for more than an hour, ignoring the token efforts of military units stationed in the city. Sosa and Campbell had reasoned that the best way to draw out Sandoval was to attack her base, and so they rampaged throughout the city, crushing anything that looked vaguely important or impressive. From the downtown core they tore through the streets and waded through buildings further south, where newer high-rise projects had sprouted like mushrooms in the recent boom of revitalization. The trail of smoke and fire advanced closer and closer to the tree-lined hilly streets of El Poblado. 

Sandoval's sicarios grew more and more nervous as they saw the gigantic creatures slowly advance. The district had virtually emptied out in this time and they were some of the only people left. Some of the sicarios left the room in ones and twos, muttering excuses about using the toilet or getting a drink, then quietly snuck out of the building altogether, fleeing on foot. Only a few diehard loyalists were left with Sandoval, and even they were pale and painted with sweat. She didn't mind. When Zilla arrived to destroy these riotous upstarts she would reward everyone who stuck by her.

The minutes passed as the sleek insect and the waving tentacles drew closer and closer to the forest of luxury apartment buildings that made up El Poblado. No one in the luxury apartment spoke, as Sandoval remained seated in a luxurious Danish armchair slowly nursing a glass of Macallan. They simply watched with growing nervousness through the enormous north-facing window.

Finally, when the two kaiju were smashing through apartment blocks less than a mile away, their cries and the sound of concrete shattering plainly heard even through the thick plate glass, Sandoval abruptly drained the remainder of the whiskey and smacked her lips in satisfaction. The sudden sound, as small as it was compared to the carnage outside, made some of the hardened killers around her jump in surprise. They looked at her in consternation. 

“Showtime,” she said simply, a smirk on her face. “Why don't you relax and have a drink, guys. The bar is open.”

As if to punctuate the seemingly inane statement, a sudden rumbling shook the entire building. The ground between the high-rise and the two kaiju erupted in a spray of loose soil as Zilla emerged from beneath the ground. Its lithe body and aquiline face glared at the two invaders with baleful fury before launching itself forward on muscular legs. 

It feinted past Gezora's hastily raised tentacles and slammed into the cephalopod, the momentum of the charge knocking both kaiju the glass and steel of an opulent high-rise with a resounding crash. Zilla quickly pinned Gezora to the mound of rubble that was once peoples' home and slashed at it with clawed hands, trying to expose the cuttlefish's vulnerable face hidden behind tentacles.

Kamacuras flew through the air at high speed, smashing into Zilla at high speed and forcing it off Gezora. Zilla leaned away from the sudden blow, whipping its long tail at high speed directly into the preying mantis' face and knocking it away. The brief distraction was enough for Gezora to slither up the remains of the building, getting a better position. Supporting itself on only two of its sinewy tentacles, it raised its other six and began to wind them around Zilla's head and neck, the teeth of the suckers biting into the reptilian creature's flesh. Zilla bellowed in pain as it fought to free itself from Gezora's vise-like grip. 

Kamacuras once again zipped through the air on its rapidly beating wings, landing on Zilla's back and gripping with its numerous legs. The giant mantis rose its cruel curved claws and drove them deeply into Zilla's back and sides. It rose its sickles again and again, stabbing into Zilla's gray flesh wherever it could find an opening.

Zilla thrashed wildly, long tail swinging into the sides of apartment towers and clawed feet kicking over trees. Zilla bit and clawed, trying to both dislodge Gezora's stranglehold and buck Kamacuras off its back. Zilla's gnashing serrated teeth managed to sink into one of Gezora's rubbery, flexible arms and bite deeply. Silvery blood gushed free from the wounded tentacle, left hanging from a string, very nearly severed by Zilla's crushing maul. Zilla smashed back first into and through surrounding tower blocks, battering Kamacuras however possible. 

Over the long minutes, though, neither kaiju relinquished their clutches on Zilla even as most of El Poblado was reduced to rubble. The iguana-like kaiju's struggling became weaker and weaker, the thrashing more and more sluggish. Zilla frothed at the mouth, its yellow eyes bulged, and rivers of its blood rain down its back to splash in the streets of Medellin. Finally, Zilla's knees buckled. Finally, it sagged and went limp in Gezora's grip.

Gezora and Kamacuras released Zilla, and it fell to the ground, dead. Satisfied with their work, Kamacuras immediately picked up Gezora and left Medellin as suddenly as they had arrived.

Zilla was not the only casualty that day. The Colombian city had not been prepared for the titanic battle that had just been ended, and thousands had found themselves caught in the middle of it all. 

Among those killed was one Maria Sandoval, the cause of it all. Somewhere in their blind grappling the three kaiju had barreled through her hideout, instantly killing her and all of her remaining sicarios. Killing her had never been part of the plan, merely to remove Zilla to force her to the negotiating table.

With the majority of South America's coca supply ruined by her earlier raids, the cocaine trade would seriously disrupted. The global underworld balance of power had been thrown completely out of alignment. 

KAESONG, DEMOCRATIC PEOPLE'S REPUBLIC OF KOREA

Daisuke Homma had just had a difficult couple of days. 

Rodan had been safely hidden in the most inaccessible mountains of Kumamoto Prefecture. No one was specifically searching for the massive winged creature, he had been careful to make the first smuggling run into North Korea under cover of darkness. However, the general unease in the world had put the Self Defense Forces on a heightened state of alert. Any further moves would have to be done carefully.

With his ties to customs officials and trade unions, it had been trivial to find an appropriately-sized coal train on Kyushu. On paper, it would be a simple job, snatch up the train and fly it over the water and into a North Korean port. But his contacts insisted on Rodan dropping it off further inland, risking further discovery. Not to mention the sudden new campaign against gangsters worldwide. The yakuza were not exempt- Homma had received word of gang leaders all over the country being held by police or attacked by rivals, including a handful here in Fukuoka. He had thus far escaped such a fate but he knew it was only a matter of time.

Nevertheless, in spite of it all Rodan had winged into the DPRK, the cars of a JR Freight train loaded with rich coal clutched in its talons like some pearl necklace. Too close to the DMZ, Homma knew South Korean AA batteries and news cameras would be trained on his winged beast but unwilling to make a move north of the border. 

Finally, Rodan had arrived at the industrial park in Kaesong where he had been instructed to leave the shipment, setting it down as gently as its sheer size allowed. Suddenly, Rodan sensed something was wrong, a premonition received hundreds of miles away by Homma. The creature turned its long, flexible neck just in time to see something unexpected.

It unfolded up from behind a squat factory building. Rodan had spotted the lump from the air but dismissed it as another warehouse or something, a gray and windowless lump of concrete in a place full of nothing else. But now, it was horribly apparent this was some sort of living creature. 

It was some weird muscular bipedal combination of toad and ox, its lumpy gray skin giving way to plated armor on the abdomen. Two long curving horns protruded from the sides of its head as two red eyes glared out.

Homma- and Rodan by extension- gaped at the sight. There had been rumors of a North Korean kaiju, sure. But all sorts of rumors had flown around in the general panic, and most had been proven false. He had assumed the Pulgasari had been yet another unfounded rumor, ancient myth twisted into “facts”. 

Homma's moment of hesitation had lasted for one too many critical seconds. The Pulgasari charged forwards with surprising speed for its ponderous body, leaving huge gouges in the concrete beneath. Homma could only wince in shock as Pulgasari's massive fists rained down blows on Rodan's exposed abdomen.

Rodan tried to fight back. It flapped its wings at Pulgasari, pecked at it with its beak- one lucky blow to the face caused a rain of orange ichor from Pulgasari's eye. But ultimately it was to no avail as Rodan was finally hurled to the ground with an earthshaking crash. Homma closed his eyes, expecting a death blow to Rodan at any second.

But the final crushing blow never fell.

Pulgasari simply stepped back, arms akimbo. An oddly human gesture, one of satisfaction. Homma had seen it before, hundreds of times. Street fights where the winner stood back, smirking, reveling in their opponent's humiliation.

Homma suddenly realized this new kaiju didn't even consider Rodan worth killing.

This wasn't some wild beast, this was another kaiju under human control. As Rodan picked itself off the ground and reluctantly flew away, two Sukhoi fighters of the People's Air Force accompanied the flying kaiju to the borders. Homma understood he was being shown the door. Whoever controlled the Pulgasari did so with the full support and cooperation of the North Korean government. The implications were troubling.

Homma fumed as Rodan flew back towards Kyushu. Somehow, in some way, he would have vengeance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first kaiju dead (just had to be Zilla) and the first kaiju to appear that is not controlled by organized crime. Or for that matter, the first non-Toho kaiju.
> 
> Obviously I'm building up a monster mash here, any particular kaiju you would like to see appear?


	10. An Offer You Can't Refuse

MUNICH, GERMANY

“You're going to hear a lot of proposals on how best to defend Germany from this new threat,” Dr. Riesendorf said, speaking clearly for the mic on her laptop- it sometimes struggled to pick up on her low contralto voice, especially here in her office. Her calm demeanor was a notable opposite to the numerous federal officials she could see on the video conference. They were Cabinet ministers, military officers, various bureaucrats- all of whom looked haggard and frequently took discreet sips of their caffeinated beverage of choice. While Germany had not yet been directly attacked by any kaiju, the possibility alone had necessitated frantic planning. There was lively public debate about sending relief to other beleaguered nations or holding those moneys and manpower at home just in case. And of course, quiet inquiries into some sort of wonder weapon. And so this hastily-formed committee had approached her.

“My esteemed colleagues in the scientific community will try to sell you on some sort of mechanical solution. Supersonic missiles, high-powered lasers, neutron bombs. I do not profess to be an expert in those fields. Perhaps that sort of Perry Rhodan stuff might work, I don't know. But I feel strongly that our best defense is a biological weapon.”

“Are you suggesting we use anthrax or something?” one of the officials interjected. “May I remind you Germany is a signatory-”

“With respect, I am not suggesting anything so crude. Creatures that large are unlikely to be susceptible to any germ agent we can reasonably stockpile. No, we must turn our scale from the micro to the macro. I have watched the events in Colombia and North Korea with great interest, and it is clear that the only thing that can harm a kaiju is another kaiju.”

The dramatic statement was met with nearly a minute of uneasy silence from the officials on the video conference. It was so quiet that Dr. Riesendorf could hear well beyond the confines of her cramped office, in an unobtrusive corner of one of the university's ancient buildings.

Finally, one of the officials, a Bundeswehr officer, managed to find words. “You possess one of these creatures?”

Dr. Riesendorf laughed. “I'm called Dr. Riesendorf, not Dr. Mabuse. I am a professor of biology, not a gangster. No, what I suggest is that we construct such a creature.”

“Please elaborate, doctor,” the officer prodded, interested despite himself. 

“The idea is not without precedent. You are all perhaps familiar with the idea of genetically engineered strains of wheat or dogs being bred for specific purposes. I am simply building on older research that lays out a blueprint for creating a more complex organism. With modern methods and equipment it should be quite simple, really,” Riesendorf noted. She turned in her desk chair, briefly searched one of the many books on her overflowing shelves, and selected a directory of the university library. “The research is quite old, beginning in the 1790s. Back when this university was based at Ingolstadt, there was a certain Swiss nobleman and occasionally some of his contemporaries conducting research into the creation of life. He left extensive notes on his research, all of which exists in the university archives. Unfortunately, as was often the case at the time, his brilliance was mistaken for madness.”

She opened the directory to a well-worn page and held it open to the camera, indicating a long list of highlighted titles. “His papers, his diaries, his doodlings on beer hall napkins- all preserved in the archives. They offer a complete blueprint to creating a living creature from scratch. I can have a team working on this tomorrow, and I can offer the federal government a kaiju by as early as next month. The research was already done 200 years ago, now it is simply a matter of execution on an appropriate scale. I require very little, really. An altogether modest sum, government aid on cutting through the red tape to obtain appropriate facilities, staff, and access to certain highly regulated chemicals. You'll see the financial information on the written report I have sent you.”

The officials had be reviewing her requests as she spoke, and even the most doubtful of them was surprised at how modest her financial requirements truly were- a tenth of even the second cheapest special kaiju defense project they were considering. While few if any of the committee members had any faith in the work of an 18th century alchemist, for the small amount of funding Riesendorf requested they could easily give her a grant along with a more practical project. Might as well hedge their bets and be able to truthfully tell the press they were pursuing multiple leads.

Finally one of the officials spoke. “I think for this amount we can approve your proposal, Dr. Riesendorf. The committee has another briefing scheduled shortly, but we will be in touch to discuss specifics.”

She smiled in satisfaction. “Thank you all so much. You will not regret it, I promise you that.” The conference ended, and Dr. Riesendorf allowed herself a small moment of celebration. She rooted around in her desk drawer and found a glass and half-empty bottle of good Westphalian schnapps, held in reserve for these particularly celebratory moments. She poured herself a small amount, and held up the glass in salute to the long-dead researcher whose work she would finally fulfill centuries later. “To a new world of gods and monsters,” she said before slugging back the sweet herbal liquor in one swallow. “Now at last the world will know the genius of Victor Frankenstein.”

MOSCOW, RUSSIA

Nothing had worked.

Point-blank assaults by the finest armored units in the Russian Army. Waves of Mi-24 helicopter gunships. Heavy munitions dropped by high altitude Tupolev bombers. Even the backbone of Russian military strategy, precision artillery bombardments, had yielded no results. Angurius continued its thorough demolition of Moscow without so much as a bruise to show for it. 

At most they had been able to hold it in one place for a few hours while they relentlessly pounded the spiked kaiju. Just as hopes were raised, out of the smoke and flames the soldiers would hear the now familiar barks of the kaiju and the thunder of its footfalls. It seemed to be deliberately standing in one place while they attacked, as if enjoying the destruction wrought by the explosions around it. Much of the northern side of the city was in rubble. Anguirus continued to work its way south, towards the dense city center and the Moskva River. 

Thankfully most of the city had been evacuated, Muscovites fleeing with only what they could carry. Those unable to leave the city sought shelter in the extensive subway tunnels south of the Moskva, the banks of which had been lined with tanks and artillery as a final defense line. Not that it would do much good- from general to private, the Russian forces were beginning to recognize that their efforts were amounting to nothing. 

But the orders were coming in from the highest of authorities, sequestered away in a bunker somewhere- Anguirus was not to reach Central Moscow, with all of its economic, historic, government, and cultural importance. It was to be defended at all costs. The use of “special weapons” was hastily authorized by the Council of Ministers and the Duma. Indeed, unique equipment was rushed to the front- rubberized capes and gas masks. Specialist soldiers began to trade out with ordinary combat troops on the front line, and new shells were brought to the artillery for careful loading.

On paper, Russia had disposed of the last of their chemical weapons in 2017. In reality, the government had found a “forgotten” stash of sarin gas shells. Perhaps it was truly forgotten, perhaps it was held just in case for an emergency. Now, in desperation, the sarin shells were loaded into howitzers in a last-ditch effort to kill Anguirus. 

The Begovoy District was written off- a good chunk of it was sports stadiums and parkland, anyway, it wasn't as though a lot of people lived there. No one wanted to return to their home and be afraid of the soil and water, to have to scrub every nook and cranny to avoid fatal poison. The plan was simply to fence off the district and declare it no-man's-land. But it was considered a small price to pay. There simply wasn't time to think about tomorrow. There wouldn't be a tomorrow for Moscow if this didn't work.

Much of the world press gathered in Moscow seemed disappointed by this latest barrage. They had been promised gas, and in their minds they had expected vividly orange or green clouds of billowing smoke. Sure, the shells made an odd gurgle as they flew overhead to the speck on the horizon they were told was Angurius. But the colorless, odorless gas was disappointingly dull. They reassured themselves with the knowledge that Anguirus would soon absorb enough of the sarin to immediately fall over and die. They reassured their viewers on live television that the nightmare would soon be over.

But this didn't occur. 

Instead the four-legged monster continued barked again in triumph and smashed its horned head against the ornate columns of the Moscow Hippodrome, crushing the concourse of Russia's largest horse-racing track in an instant. The images of weapons of mass destruction failing to achieve anything made its way to millions of viewers.

Something like panic began to spread through the ranks of soldiers and journalists. They had played their trump card and it had done nothing. A second salvo of gas shells was fired, then a third. 

No effect.

The winds began to shift.

The constant risk of using gas, especially one as potent as sarin, is that it will blow back in your face. Even a small wisp was enough to sicken or kill. A few small gusts bearing traces of sarin made their way back to the soldiers and journalists. There were few incidents among the military, they were for the most part properly trained and equipped to avoid exposure. 

The world press had no such advantage. Several had donned gas masks as a precaution, others had refused to cover their face for their viewers. Even the masks were no help, though- simple skin exposure was sufficient. Pockets of gas made their way to a few on-air reporters on rooftops or the banks of the Moskva.

The viewing public was treated to the sight of reporters sweating profusely before lapsing into bouts of heavy coughing and vomiting. Most networks had the sense to mercifully cut away once they realized what was happening.

The disastrous attack caused military and civilian morale to plummet almost immediately. If even a forbidden, terrible, last-resort weapon like nerve gas couldn't kill a kaiju, what could humanity possibly do to fight back? 

RIO DE JANEIRO, BRAZIL

Rocinha was a battleground.

The tightly packed, dense hillside favela had long been the scene of various skirmishes, true. With multiple competing gangs and the unsavory tactics of local police, the people eking out a living here were no strangers to violence. But the long simmering war had been a low-key affair, ambushes and knifings and arrests. 

The police had abandoned their hearts-and-minds approach of recent years and simply marched in without warning, all shields and clubs and machismo. Anyone with an internet connection or television or radio or even a particularly chatty neighbor knew why. Gangsters controlled the monsters. And in Rio, gangsters controlled the favelas. 

But it was not as simple as to simply walk in and snap on handcuffs. The “commands” here did more than simply push cocaine. Those profits were invested back into the community. Illicit money paid for utilities, schools, clinics. The gangsters were there for people the government had ignored, and they enjoyed loyalty.

The people of Rocinha and other favelas warned the commands at the first sign of trouble, and now the police were facing stiff resistance. Molotov cocktails, automatic gunfire, thrown bricks, knives, sticks. It was not a pitched battle, but a crackling extended close quarters run-and-gun from house to house, alley to alley. No sooner would fighting die down in one area than a fresh fight would suddenly start up the next street over. Similar operations were occurring in São Paulo and Salvador, and were also resulting in heavy violence.

If nothing else, it offered a good distraction for the two men making their way through Rocinha. They were furtive, taking care to stick in the shadows and avoid the ever-shifting police lines. The gunshots, sirens, and shouts all around made it easy for them to speak at a normal volume, however. They moved with an easy familiarity and surety, contemptuous of the danger around them. Neither would have been surprised to learn they were on the police list of people to arrest that night. 

“I just can't believe you've never heard of Goro Ibuki,” one complained to his companion. “You've lived in Rocinha all your life and you've not once heard of Goro Ibuki?”

“I've heard of him, Tiago,” the other protested. “I just thought he was some kind of folk hero. Like Lampião.”

“Goro Ibuki was as real as you or me and he lived right here in Rocinha. My uncle met him once.”

“I have a hard time believing any of those stories about him.” Tiago and his companion ducked into the deep shadows of a doorway for a moment as a police transport rumbled past, then stepped back out and resumed walking as though nothing had happened.

“Oh, most of them are bullshit,” Tiago promised. “But the gist is true. He was a brilliant scientist and inventor in São Paulo. But the military regime in the 70s was suspicious of intellectuals. All the macho assholes around here usually leave this part out, but Professor Ibuki was also a homosexual. Two marks against him on Médici's checklist. The DOI-CODI, the secret police at the time, picked the poor bastard up. They tortured him for a month, hoping he would give something up. No one is sure what, probably other homosexuals. Professor Ibuki never told them anything though. By the time they let him out, his hair had turned completely white.”

“I heard he went crazy, but hair can't turn white that fast,” his companion scoffed. They paused at the rattle of a machine gun nearby, before continuing on. 

“It's true, my uncle met him,” Tiago insisted. “Anyways, you're right that he went crazy. Professor Ibuki wandered around Brazil for a while, before settling here in Rocinha.” He pointed through the darkness to a crooked house at the end of the lane. It had clearly been abandoned for years. “That house there.”

“Yeah, Tiago, everyone around here knows the story. About how he built death rays and robots and rockets here in the favela.”

“That's a little exaggerated,” Tiago allowed as they came to the locked gate to the cottage. He examined the padlock with a bored expression for a moment. Finally, he drew a Taurus pistol from out of his jeans and fired a single shot, sending the lock flying. They opened the rusty gate and walked towards the cottage. “But the people here loved him. He could fix anything, build anything. They would bring him radios, telephones, cars, electric razors, anything you can think of, and he would get it up and running in no time. He built equipment for the clinic from scratch, purified the water around here. Always had candy for the kids. Just a sweet Japanese man who was a little crazy but nice to have around. There was a huge turnout for his funeral.”

“So what are we doing here, Tiago?” the other man asked as he forced the front door with a crowbar. It quickly opened with a loud crack, disturbing a good half inch of dust on the floors. They entered, began checking the closets and other storage spaces in the small cottage.

“Well, the news got me thinking. Gangsters have giant monsters. But we don't here. Why should all the American and British assholes get them but not us?” He yanked open a closet with great force, sneered as he found nothing more interesting than an old forgotten broom. Tiago stalked across the room to another door, built more solidly than the rest. Maybe it was in here. “Everything we have we had to take. No different now.”

“Sure, but what's that got to do with Goro Ibuki?” Tiago's subordinate said. Seeing his boss struggling with the heavy door, he came over and shoved the crowbar into the gap. The two men leaned their weight against it.

“Well, let's just say that one of the more fantastic stories about his inventions might be true,” Tiago grunted as they worked the crowbar. Finally, with a splintering groan the heavy door broke and swung open.

The dim light illuminated an odd sight. A silvery metal figure, with accents in red, yellow, and blue. The pointed head bizarrely included an incredibly broad grin.

“Meet Goro Ibuki's greatest creation,” Tiago said with a smirk. 

NEW ORLEANS, UNITED STATES

The consolidated city-parish of New Orleans did not provide the best food in their jail. 

The guards grandiosely announced mashed potatoes, peas, and Salisbury steak but the plate of mush that arrived in Amelia Hawkins' jail cell could just as easily have been said to be chicken teriyaki or pork chops with eggs or lamb vindaloo for all she could tell. She picked at it without an appetite. Her thoughts were elsewhere, with her father on Death Row in Terre Haute. 

And of course with Varan. She had been busy on that front, proving a point, hurling her bitterness and hatred upon the world.

She barely even looked up when her cell door opened and a man with a suit walked in. Probably here to beat her some more. 

“I want to be the first to congratulate you, Amelia,” the man with the suit said without preamble.

“What do you mean?” she said absently, poking at her meal with a plastic fork. It jiggled in an unappetizing way.

“I may be wrong, but I'm pretty sure you're the first person in history to defeat an American tank division. You've beat Ludendorff and Rommel and Giap. Good job, you.”

“Not quite sure what you mean,” she gambled.

“Oh, come off it,” the well-dressed man said. “You just waltzed through the 194th Armor Brigade. Waded through them like they were nothing. And some of the best infantry support we could muster, for that matter. Full support from the combined Alabama and Georgia Air and Land National Guards. Still just like ants to it though. And then you destroyed Fort Benning itself and all of Columbus for dessert. Not to mention all the little towns between Mobile and there. They're saying around ten thousand dead in both military and civilians, and that's only gonna grow. A lot of people are afraid that monster is going to move on to Macon or Savannah or even Atlanta.”

“Tough break,” she replied. “Never had to happen, though.”

“Right,” the man in the suit nodded. “All we had to do was release your dad, right?”

“Finally, you get the idea.”

“Credit where it's due, some people were keeping records,” the man in the suit acknowledged. “Some people might have written off everything you were saying as crazy babbling, but somehow it made its way to us.”

“So what does that make you, an FBI agent?”

“United States Attorney, as it happens. But that's lucky for you. It means I'm in a position to offer you a deal.”

“Oh? What makes you so sure I can help you?”

“Oh please,” he scoffed. “You were arrested in the first place for bragging about your giant monster. Now that you've destroyed a military base and two cities of import, not to mention a few small towns, you're on the hook for what? Twenty thousand counts of murder after the wounded die? Minimum sentence of 30 years per, that comes out to about 600 thousand years if they don't just give you the death penalty. Maybe they'll cut that in half for good behavior, though,” the attorney sneered. 

“You're not here to gloat. Let's cut to it,” she stated. It was a phrase that brooked no more questions.

“Fine,” he sighed. “You've heard about everything happening in the Southwest, right?”

“I've been locked in a jail cell for two days,” she taunted. “Haven't heard much of anything.”

“Fine,” the US attorney sighed, apparently expecting this response. “Perhaps you've heard of Julian Capizzi?”

“Nope, never,” she said as spitefully as she could. Truth be told, Amelia Hawkins genuinely did not know the name. But why make it easy for them. Might as well hamper the man in even the smallest of ways.

“Fine,” the well-dressed man sighed. “Julian Capizzi is the king of Las Vegas. He handles money laundering for every Midwest crime family and makes them a nice profit besides. He outright owns two Vegas casinos and has majority interests in another four, before we even get into the hundreds of roadside slots and video poker machines between Primm and Boulder City. We don't have any proof that he's actually doing anything wrong but we know. People are literally lining up to give him money and yet it's not enough.”

“Not enough how?”

“He's been operating a website and making a hell of a lot of money betting off Kumonga's actions. Ten million in the first hour, though it's been smaller since. Bets off even the smallest thing, whether the Air Force would send F-16s or A-10s first, whether the monster would destroy the Orpheum Theatre in Phoenix. He made a lot of money either way. As it stands, there's a good number of specialized Search and Rescue teams trying to save civilians cornered in downtown Phoenix. National Guard, Army, Air Force, State Police, even civilian volunteers who just want to save people in trouble, they're all tied up. There's thousands of civilians trapped by rock-hard webbing that can only be cut with serious power tools. They have to use cement saws and TNT to even start to make their way through Kumonga's webbing. Capizzi has made a fortune on gambling on this, but still. Nothing about it is actually illegal, we can't prove an actual link between Capizzi and Kumonga.”

“But you think he's behind it all,” she supplied. 

“The Irish suggested gangsters were behind each individual monster,” the attorney said, taking a look at his watch. “So might as well visit everyone who claimed to be behind one. If our analysts are correct, Kumonga will go one of two ways after destroying and webbing up Albuquerque. North, to hit Amarillo and then Oklahoma City. Projected casualties: fifty thousand. Or, god forbid, the southern route. If Kumonga hits Lubbock then Fort Worth-Dallas, then best case scenario we're looking at one hundred thousand dead.”

“Alright, I get it, you've made your point,” Hawkins cut the attorney off. “No need for the guilt trip. But first I want to hear you say it.”

“Fine,” the well-dressed man grumbled. “As originally requested, we are prepared to offer your father a pardon if you use Varan to confront and defeat Kumonga.” 

“And also a pardon for me,” she pressed.

“I'll see what I can do.”

“And a few thousand dollars to set ourselves up with.”

“Don't press your luck,” the attorney cautioned. 

“But we want the military to be at our back,” Amelia Hawkins requested. 

“That much I can promise you,” the US attorney sighed. “Bombers, fighters, tanks, and artillery, all helping Varan fight Kumonga.”

Amelia Hawkins grinned. “Well, how many people can get that kind of promise. Not to mention a good scrap. Sure, what the hell. Let's do it.”

SEOUL, REPUBLIC OF KOREA

“Madame President, we have no option but to consider a preemptive defensive attack.”

The director of the National Intelligence Service leaned back, confident in his analysis. He had not been called to the Blue House for nothing. His career had begun in the less free than free days of Park Chung-hee and like a true Cold Warrior the director had developed a mind something like a closed fist. The enemies lay to the North, and to a lesser extent within. There was only room in his head for black and white, no shades of gray. 

The President, however, was of a younger and more liberal mindset. Her goals were focused less on a final climactic struggle and more on a peaceful reunification of the two Koreas. “They haven't done anything yet. Their giant monster is intimidating, yes, but thus far it's stayed on their side of the border.”

“Can we afford to think it will continue to do so, Madame?” the director challenged. “The Pulgasari first appeared a mere twenty kilometers from the demilitarized zone. This is a clear challenge. Oh, no doubt our troops would do their best and the Americans would help us however possible. But it's plain to see- the Americans can't even fight these monsters on their own soil. The Indians, the Russians, the British, they're doing no better. Who is to say they will give their full attention to us when their own cities are being razed?”

The director could see he had the president's full attention now. The new generation was so easy to manipulate. “We can find a peaceful solution. We'll meet with their leaders, and we'll call up reserves just in case.” 

“A wise and commendable decision. But, I cannot help but think it may not be enough.”

The president narrowed her eyes at the director. “Explain.”

“I initially thought that the North might be working with criminal elements in our own country- you recall the Irish press conference, they claimed gangsters were responsible for the outbreak of monsters. So over a round of golf this morning I persuaded the commissioner of the National Police Agency to help me investigate. I learned a lot about organized crime in Korea over those eighteen holes, to be honest. Contrary to what the movies would have you believe, racketeers never got a foothold in Seoul. My agents have instead been cooperating with detectives in Busan, Incheon, Gwangju, Mokpo, and Yeosu. We have been picking up both bosses and thugs to see what they know, and believe me when I say my agents have been very enthusiastic in their questioning. Thus far we have no testimony to support evidence of collusion. So the only conclusion we can reach is that somehow the North managed to control a kaiju in their own way.”

“How is that possible?”

The director waved a hand to hide that he didn't know. “The research wing is hypothesizing about subsonic sounds and electric impulses directly to the brain. Some of my more eccentric subordinates are looking into the occult and paranormal. It's as good as any other explanation. The how isn't as important as the what, Madame President. There is a monster fifty meters tall a few kilometers from our border, and our tanks, ships, and planes won't be able to stop it if it chooses to take a walk south.”

“I'm sensing an 'unless' coming on, director.”

The director smiled. “If you open your safe, Madame President, there is a sealed envelope. The instructions within have been read and signed by every president since 1967. Perhaps you have read it, perhaps you have waited till your last days in office like most other presidents. No one would fault you for that, it is meant for the last desperate days of the republic. But eventually simple human curiosity overcame every president and they eventually read it. We have no nuclear weapons, this is the next best thing to defend us in case of invasion by the North.”

“I should read it?” she hesitated. 

“Now seems like the appropriate time,” the director said. “If you need fortification, I could send for some tea or coffee. Or if you need something stronger, maybe some soju or European brandy.”

“I'll read it,” the president said curtly. Turning in her swivel chair, she began to work the combination for the venerable Blue House safe, there for over fifty years, containing the most secret of documents. She sifted through the yellowing papers until she found the envelope in question and began to read the documents, her eyes occasionally glancing up at the director. He was content to wait, helping himself to a cup of coffee as she read through the brief. It had first been written in 1967 and elaborated on by some of the country's foremost scholars since, there was no escaping the logic. 

Finally, after a quarter of an hour, she spoke, eyes still fixed on the old report. “You suggest we dynamite Gyeryongsan? The Buddhist community will complain about the destruction of a sacred mountain.”

“Better to see a few paltry protests than a Northern victory parade,” the director asserted. “Look, Madame President, I admit I'm a hawk but I take no pleasure in this. If the North has a giant monster we have no choice but to destroy the mountain and release the giant monster within. It may hurt some of our own people, true, but allowing a North Korean monster to run wild will do even more damage. We must counteract it with our own creature.”

The president took a moment's silence then reluctantly nodded. “I'll sign the order to ignite the charges, director. God help me, you will serve as my witness. But I think I will have that drink first.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I intended to write even more for this chapter but it was already getting quite long. 
> 
> Anyways, I'm very pleased to see the positive feedback this story has been getting! Introducing a few community favorites in this one, and I just had to include some Toho Frankenstein because it's such an oddball movie even for the Toho canon.


	11. Shockwaves

LAS VEGAS, UNITED STATES

The invasion of Albuquerque was going well.

Julian Capizzi had been a little miffed when the other monster had appeared in Alabama, then downright annoyed when the Battle of Fort Benning and subsequent destruction of Columbus had sucked up all the media attention. The timing of that diversion had been terrible, coming as Kumonga was busy crossing the desert and clambering over the mountains and ignoring more airstrikes. Fewer people paying attention meant fewer people on his website placing bets. And with all the craziness overseas distracting people he needed those American viewers.

But this attack on the Duke City would draw attention back to Kumonga. Reaching out with his mind, Capizzi smiled indolently to himself as he looked down through eight eyes onto Lomas Boulevard, reaching out with a leg and flipping an ABQ RIDE bus. Another leg extended out, tearing through the concrete facade of an office building as though it was paper. Below, the antlike figures of people scattered, the screams tiny to him. The spread had favored that Kumonga would web up this city like it had Phoenix. 6-1, according to the reports on his laptop in front of him. In that case, rather than pay out on the bets, it made the most sense to simply destroy the city. It would certainly divert attention away from the other monster over in Georgia. 

Annoyingly, his laptop chirped. An incoming video call, a distraction he did not particularly need or want at the moment. His hand hovered over the mouse to reject when he saw it was from Don Salvatore, back in Chicago. Capizzi sighed, but he was a made man. When the boss asked you to come in, you came in immediately. No matter if you were at your mother's funeral or your child's christening. With a reluctant sigh, he accepted the call.

“Don Salvatore,” Capizzi said respectfully as his screen was filled with a grid of faces of older men, all of whom varied between concerned and seriously pissed. Capizzi was surprised- these were all the Midwestern crime families who had interests in the casinos out here. All the books he made, all the money he laundered, everyone he kicked up to. Detroit, Rockford, Milwaukee, Youngstown, Kansas City, Omaha, Cleveland. All of various levels of power and influence, but ultimately they all answered to Chicago in one way or another. Capizzi greeted don each in turn- these older, more conservative mafiosi or “Mustache Petes” were big on protocol. Two faces were missing, however.

“Excuse me, but where are Don Joseph of Toledo and Don Vincent of St. Louis? I would have thought they might wish to join us.”

“Don Joseph is currently being questioned by the police, but his lawyer expects to obtain his release soon,” Don Salvatore said in a clipped and brusque tone- a far cry from his normal jocularity. “Don Vincent was shot and killed in his home a few hours ago. A group of civilian vigilantes, it would seem.”

“How terrible. Please convey my condolences to his wife.”

“I'm afraid that is impossible. His wife was also killed in the attack,” Don Salvatore responded, with a note of quiet rage creeping into his voice. “Julian, what have you done?”

“I'm not quite sure what you mean, Don Salvatore,” Capizzi stalled.

The old man shook his head. “Don't insult us, Julian. For years we have entrusted you with our money and you have faithfully rewarded that trust. I invited you to my granddaughter's wedding. We thought you were a man of principles, a man of honor. And now you do a thing like this!”

“Don Salvatore-”

“We know about your website,” the don cut him off, unable to keep the rising anger from creeping into his voice. “We have friends in the FBI and media, Julian. After what the Irish said, it doesn't take a genius to figure out that you're behind the giant spider down there.”

Capizzi knew this would come eventually. He had originally made his plans under the operating assumption no one else would have a giant monster, but when the Irish government had announced that the kaiju were controlled by organized crime he had assumed he would eventually have to tell someone in his organization. He had a few talking points ready to go. “Don Salvatore, all you other men of honor. Believe me when I say that this is an excellent opportunity for us all. I will of course allow you to wet your beaks as normal. In fact, I intended to add an extra percentage to everyone's take as thanks for your generous support over the years. A rising tide lifts all boats, as they say. You will all be far richer men.”

“You've been earning a lot, then?” one of the lesser dons demanded, interested in spite of himself. 

Capizzi nodded eagerly. “I made ten million dollars in the first hour alone, and that was just on subscription fees. The betting is like nothing you've seen, gentlemen. It's like the Super Bowl, the Kentucky Derby, and Election Day all in one. And with so many flights canceled, there's tourists stuck here in Vegas with nothing better to do than drop quarters in slots.” 

“You think this is about money?” Don Salvatore suddenly roared. “Laughlin, Phoenix, now Albuquerque! You've wiped out entire cities! Women and children are dead, Julian! That is an infamita! And the attention you've brought on us all. No, Julian, this foolishness, this slaughter, it ends now.”

Capizzi scowled. “I have given thirty years of my life to this thing of ours and this is how I am treated! You Mustache Petes are always holding us back, you know that? In the 20s you wouldn't have wanted to smuggle liquor, in the 50s you would've balked at narcotics, in the 90s you laughed at computers. This is the way forwards, gentlemen! If you can't support my efforts, then you need not profit from them. You don't want blood money, right?” Capizzi's own voice was increasing in volume. “In fact, maybe it's more appropriate for all of you to kick up to me! I'm the one with the giant spider!”

“We won't tolerate this disrespect,” the don from Kansas City shot back.

“Oh, you'll tolerate it,” Capizzi said. “With a smile on your face, otherwise Kumonga will be walking down The Paseo next! Or maybe I'll send it to visit you in Cleveland if you don't wipe that angry look off your face, Don Paulo.”

“You need to be taught a lesson in humility, young man,” Don Salvatore growled. 

“On the contrary,” Capizzi smirked. “I have the money, I have Kumonga. You need to start respecting me. Call me Don Julian. Capo di tutti i capi. Boss of all bosses.”

With that grandiose pronouncement, Capizzi terminated the call. They would bend the knee or suffer the consequences. He closed his eyes, let himself see through eight eyes twenty meters off the ground. Time to turn his anger on Albuquerque.

KAMPALA, UGANDA

They had done it. They had seized the city.

It had been a long hard day of fighting, even with Megaguirus on their side. The commander of the Lord's Resistance Army had called in every soldier he could, put guns in the hands of children and told them his personal blessing made them bulletproof, but his forces still amounted to only a few hundred- a far cry of the mighty army he had commanded years before. Even with Megaguirus destroying barracks and police stations they had been forced to shoot it out and taken losses.

But now the last of the gunfire had died down. The commander had troops combing the city looking for holdouts, but the worst of the fighting had passed. The commander indulged himself by sitting at the desk of an office in the Ugandan Parliament, putting his mud-caked boots and battered FN FAL rifle up on the surface. Similarly, the enormous insect monster lounged on the shattered remains of the National Theatre, the squat concrete building serving as nothing more than an ottoman.

There would be more fighting to come, the commander knew. God, or maybe the UBC news anchor on the radio, had told him that the President had managed to flee to Mbarara and was organizing the Ugandan People's Defense Force for a counterattack, with military aid already promised from the African Union. No matter, the commander thought to himself as he looked fondly on the resting form of Megagurius. God had sent an angel to aid them in their righteous cause. 

One of his aides rushed into the room and handed over a satellite phone. He accepted it without question and held it to his ear. “Commander, it is Dickson Okoro,” the Nigerian-accented voice on the other line said. “I wanted to be the first to congratulate you on your great victory.”

The commander smiled. “Providence guided us. Soon Uganda will live under no law but the Ten Commandments. But Dickson, my friend, we will need your help once again. The President is planning to try to retake Kampala. We just need Megaguirus to-”

“Yes, commander,” Okoro cut him off. “I'm sure that you and your soldiers will be able to fend it off without trouble- after all, God is on your side.”

The commander frowned. “Wait, what are you saying?”

“Your funds were appreciated. But now that other interested parties have seen what Megaguirus is capable of, they have made a second bid that beats yours.”

“I have paid you a small fortune!”

“And they paid me a large one.”

The commander seethed. “I only have a few hundred men, Okoro! There's no way I can hold this city against an AU counterattack!”

“Don't you tell your soldiers that praying makes them bulletproof, commander? Now is a good time to test that theory. Best of luck.”

The line went dead just as an enormous buzzing filled the air. The commander rushed to the office's shattered window to see Megaguirus' wings beginning to vibrate, slowly lifting the titanic bulk off the crushed theatre and into the air. 

“God damn you, Okoro the gangster,” the commander cried in powerless despair as he saw the giant insectoid kaiju wing its way west.

GEORGE TOWN, CAYMAN ISLANDS

The mood for Sosa and Campbell's latest strategy meeting was far less jolly. There were no toasts, no fine meals. They had simply gathered in one of the hotel's meeting rooms to discuss their next move. The news of Sandoval's death had left both men irritable. With no clear successor to the leadership of the Medellin cartel, the handful of coca fields that remained would be heavily contested. The future supply of cocaine was severely curtailed and scarcity would result in a massive increase in prices. 

“We can't make up the loss on the streets,” Sosa muttered indignantly. “This is going to price it out of most of our customers' reach.”

“A lot of people are going to be crashhin' without the white,” Campbell noted. “Be floodin' the hospitals.”

“Cocaine withdrawal doesn't normally kill,” Sosa said with a dismissive wave of the hand, as though swatting away the image of millions of people suffering those serious effects. “In fact, it might be a good opportunity to get them on something else, and quickly. We have a little sideline in methampetimine but it's not going to sustain all my plazas and switching over won't be fast.”

“Same with the ganja,” Campbell agreed. “Takes up more space and not nearly as profitable.”

“We have the distribution and transportation networks on lock, perhaps we could move into heroin fairly quickly. I've never worked in that field but that might be the way forward,” Sosa suggested.

“I know some soldiers who went out London way,” Campbell agreed. “They got good connects for the poppies in Turkey. If they lived through Baragon maybe they could make an introduction for us.”

“Turkey?” Sosa frowned. “That's going to be a problem. The lobster and the dragon have the Mediterranean blocked off. I'm not sure who's behind that or what their plan might be but I'm guessing we're going to need their blessing and they might not be willing to give it. No, it's too risky. If I speak to the other cartel heads, perhaps one of them might have a contact in Afghanistan or Thailand we can use.”

“Bossman, here's the thing now,” Campbell said. “You wanted to be their leader, yeah? Now the first thing you do as boss is a mistake. Hey, it happens, it was my mistake too. But going to them and asking them how to fix it just makes you look weak. No, brethren, we gotta fix this ourselves. We're going to stand in front of all of them and say 'here's the solution.' And if that means we gotta move the brown through the Mediterranean then we do it.”

Sosa nodded, seeing the wisdom there. “I do have a few general contacts in that area, buyers mostly. Sicilian Mafia, the Albanians, 'Ndrangheta, some old-school Galicians, Israelis. I can ask among them and try to find out who might be controlling the monsters.”

Campbell nodded. “I'll talk to the yardies, see about that introduction. Maybe we let the beasties rest a few days- I think we might be needing them again if things don't go so well.”

GENKAI, JAPAN

Daisuke Homma stewed as Rodan made its way across the Strait of Tsushima. His mood had worsened after being confronted by a flight of ROK F-5 Tigers. Even hurt, Rodan had easily outpaced the old fighters, leaving them in its slipstream before the pilots could let off a shot.

Rodan was so powerful, but had been humiliated so easily.

He paced, swore, tried to look at the police news for information on the crackdowns. Two rival yakuza families in Osaka had shot it out, a passing civilian killed by stray bullets. Police raided a Chinese-run gambling den in Yokohama, met with resistance with knives, clubs, and swords. An oyabun in Hiroshima self-immolated when detectives came to question him. And similar stories from Okayama, Takamatsu, Chiba, Kobe, Kitakyushu, on and on and on. All it did was worsen his mood, make him feel his humiliation more keenly.

Homma remembered the last time he had lost a fight, in fifth grade. Another boy had knocked him down and torn his uniform. Homma had had to walk home with blood on his face for everyone to see, then his father, already drunk, had beaten him for losing. Homma had enrolled for judo lessons the next day, but Rodan had no such recourse.

Or did it?

Homma thought of Genkai, a small town only a few kilometers away. Mostly he thought of the nuclear power plant situated on a narrow finger of land jutting into the strait. 

“Do it,” whispered a voice in flawless Japanese. Homma, alone in his office, looked around in confusion. For a moment, he thought he saw a shadow on the wall, like he had one year before.

But then it was gone.

Homma thought for a moment, unsure whether or not to chalk the vision up to stress and an overactive imagination. But the more he thought, the more he strayed to humiliation, to being made to feel weak. And he made a decision based on that.

Only a few minutes later, klaxons sounded at the Genkai nuclear power plant. The disappearance of an entire coal train in Saga Prefecture had put them on high alert. Plant workers ran outside, trying to flee or catch some glimpse of whatever threat loomed.

The sonic boom hurled them to the ground, blood leaking from their shattered eardrums. Those who looked up at the sky from their supine position could only scream at the sight of Rodan diving down from 30,000 feet, wings folded back like an falcon, reaching an enormous and deathly speed.

The kaiju collided with the ground with the force of an earthquake, the case-hardened concrete shell surrounding the nuclear reactor simply vaporized by the impact, the workers turned into jelly. Vehicles on site flew into the air, landing in the suddenly choppy waters of Hokawazura Bay or slamming into buildings inland. Trees snapped, roads cracked, windows broke. Survivors in the nearby town of Genkai ran into the streets to escape their burning and collapsing homes. Knowing the shock had come from the nuclear power plant, they feared the worst. 

But hastily deployed Geiger counters and test badges detected a sudden decrease in the level of radiation.

Those who weren't frantically fighting the fires or trying to pull valuable from the wreckage heard the piercing cry coming from the crater that was once a power plant, saw the flashes of red and pinkish light. Some could even make out the form of the winged beast itself, wings spread wide in triumph, a light like the fire of hell at the back of its throat.

Alone in his office in Fukuoka, miles away, Homma smiled. Henceforth they would have to call his kaiju Fire Rodan.

JAKARTA, INDONESIA

They had locked the doors and assumed that would be enough to keep them safe. 

The staff at the National Museum of Indonesia had resigned themselves to the fact that they would likely have to spend the night at the museum. They had called their families and made their apologies, entreated their partners to stay at home. It took very little convincing- the Mobile Brigade Corps was still chasing the premans all over town on the smallest chance that even one of them controlled a kaiju. The sounds of roaring car engines and the infrequent crackle of automatic gunfire could be heard even through the thick stone walls. Better to stay here until it was safe.

It wasn't as bad as all that- there was plenty of food in the break room and large televisions as well. No monsters had attacked Indonesia. With the sight of Gorosaurus strolling into Dublin Bay and Megalon disappearing into a giant hole in the earth outside Hosur, they even managed to convince themselves that the monsters were now leaving forever, never to be seen again. They told themselves things were returning to normal.

Distracted by instant noodles and satellite television, it took the museum staff some time to notice the odd ringing sound and the whitish glow coming from the storage room. Most of the museum's tens of thousands of prehistoric and anthropological artifacts from all over the Indonesian archipelago were not on public display but carefully cataloged behind the scenes. 

Finally, one of them saw the bright white light seeping from under a door and alerted the others with a shout. Fearing a fire, the staff ran and flung open the door, grabbing extinguishers off the wall. Instead of licking flames, however, they were greeted by an incredible sight.

A hundred or so small artifacts were floating a meter off the floor of the storage room, glowing and releasing an ethereal hum. They had broken free of cardboard boxes, lucite blocks, sealed cases.

The gaping museum staff only caught a few seconds of the otherworldly display before the glow ceased and the artifacts dropped. As stunned as the staffers were, professionalism kicked in and they moved to recatalog the items.

All of the items that had behaved so strangely had been found over the years on one particularly obscure island in the Java Sea, whose natives had long died out or been assimilated into Indonesian society before any significant studies could be undertaken. Beads and medallions of an as-yet unidentified metal, all marked with an overlaid cross and sun symbol.

Anthropologists theorized the inhabitants of Infant Island used these items in religious ceremonies honoring their goddess, who took the avatar of a moth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Believe it or not, all the American cities represented in Capizzi's meeting do in fact have a mob presence, though it's not too prominent in most cases.
> 
> I know Fire Rodan is usually not very highly regarded in the fandom, but I like the idea of ol' flyboy getting a power-up.


	12. Standoff

SHREWSBURY, UNITED KINGDOM

Major General Richard Purvis hadn't slept for nearly two days. 

He had a comfortable enough bed picked out for him in the hastily erected command post here in Shrewsbury, though he couldn't say he had ever expected to be fighting a war on British soil from the rooms above a normally tranquil country pub. Despite the busy atmosphere, his staff would no doubt have made every hour to be quiet and respectful if he announced he was going to rest for a few hours.

No, what troubled him was the front pages of the Times and Mail and other publications, showing his face and loudly screaming THE HERO OF COVENTRY at the world. 

Purvis understood, of course. After Baragon had utterly destroyed London and followed up with Luton and several other towns, the public needed a success story, something to help them buck up even as the death toll continued to rise. And the general did indeed feel some pride in successfully holding off Baragon in the suburbs of Coventry just long enough to successfully evacuate the city center. 

If only that hadn't come at the expense of the Royal Hussars.

That was the last pitched engagement Purvis had attempted. Baragon unleashing its rage on the old factory city had allowed his troops time to regroup, but it had also allowed him plenty of time to view the corpses of young men, crushed and burned and mangled beyond recognition in the coffins of their Challenger tanks. Never again, he had vowed.

They had adopted the Irish tactics after that, all fireworks and smokescreens and bright lights and misdirection. There had, of course, been grumbling from armchair generals in the press, but the setpiece battles simply were not working. They had failed in Moscow, in Bangalore, in the Arizona desert, in Georgia. And they had failed badly in England. 

The “three Ds” had worked considerably better- while they had done nothing to actually hurt Baragon they had been able to lead it away from the teeming metropolis of Birmingham and further east into more secluded country in the Shropshire Hills along the Welsh border. It had been difficult enough to keep the beast interested long enough to guide it along, but it had resulted in far fewer casualties. Now, Purvis just had to figure out next steps now that Baragon had been moved away from larger settlements and bottled up in the hills. 

His meditations were interrupted by a sudden burst of frenzied activity within the command post. A little sluggishly, he looked up as one of his staffers turned on the television to ITV News. “General, you'd best take a look at this, sir,” the officer called to Purvis.

General Purvis felt his blood run cold as he surveyed the footage. It looked like the Liverpool Pier Head, the famous sight of the historic buildings known as Three Graces along the River Mersey. But the normally peaceful scene was clouded by fog.

No, not fog. Smoke.

As Purvis watched, one of the famous clock towers of the Royal Liver Building leaned tiredly, finally snapping at the waist and plummeting into the waters of the Mersey with an enormous splash, waves buffeting the boat from which the footage was being filmed. From amongst the haze, a green saurian head emerged, a slavering jaw full of jagged teeth.

Gorosaurus.

“That's the thing that attacked Ireland,” the staff officer noted. 

“A second giant monster attacking Britain,” another said sourly.

“Third,” Purvis corrected. “We must not forget Gibraltar.”

“Right you are, sir.”

“General Purvis, sir!” One of the soldiers on communications duty frantically waved over the general, holding up a telephone. “Home Office on the line.”

Purvis took the phone. “This is Purvis.”

“General, we have a man on the line named Eamon McNamara,” said a clipped, no-nonsense voice. “Do you recognize the name?”

Purvis tiredly rubbed his neck. “It sounds familiar. Is he the chap who tried to extort the Irish government?”

“Quite. He's phoned us to claim responsibility for the Liverpool attack and has asked to speak to you personally. We're going to attempt to trace the call.”

Purvis sighed as he heard the click of the call being transferred, then an affable Irish-accented voice broke through. “General. Eamon McNamara, pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“McNamara. I understand you are claiming responsibility for the attack on Liverpool.” The general's voice was cold and stilted.

“That I am. Thought my Gorosaurus was getting tired of swimming about and should stretch its legs on land.”

“Am I to understand you are extorting the government of the United Kingdom?”

“Fair play to you, figuring that out. At first I thought I'd stroll north and menace Belfast, but let's not kid ourselves, you lot don't care about anything that happens on this island.”

“McNamara, I am an officer in the Army. I am not authorized to make any deals with you and I should inform you it is my duty to stop you. So I'm going to hang up and then blast your bloody great lizard off the face of the earth.”

“Like you've been doing such a good job with that one that wrecked London,” McNamara laughed. “No, General, I come friendly. I'm going to help you fight that thing- Baragon, is it?”

“How philanthropic. If you come friendly, get out of Liverpool,” Purvis ordered. He watched the television coverage as Gorosaurus annihilated the stone facade of the Cunard Building with a flick of its long tail. Purvis winced, he knew in his heart that one movement had killed dozens of trapped office workers.

“Well, I thought a demonstration was in order, General. Have to let you know what my dinosaur can do.”

“Back in Ireland you destroyed two cities and routed an army, McNamara. Your point was already made.”

“Well, then I never did care for the Beatles. Good enough reason. Mostly I want to make one thing clear, General: don't fuck with me. Now, I'll talk to the Home Office about the billion pounds and the pardon I expect for my services. But you're a practical man concerned with practical matters, General. I'm going to talk to you about how we're going to work together to defeat Baragon. You may not like it, but right now I'm the best advantage you'll ever have.”

MUNICH, GERMANY

“Mr. Mueller, you'll have to forgive me if I am somewhat distracted,” Dr. Riesendorf said as she shook hands with the functionary sent by a minor federal ministry. “We are about to receive another shipment of precursor material. I prefer to personally supervise whenever possible.” As if to punctuate her words, she walked briskly, purposefully. The shorter bureaucrat had to move quickly to catch up. She was a tall woman and took long strides- a necessity given that she had commandeered an entire recreational center for her project. The antiseptic smell wafted through the entire building, proof of the Olympic-sized pool drained and filled with various exotic chemicals. What she had called an “incubation vat”.

“We do not wish to interfere with your work any more than is absolutely necessary, doctor,” Mueller said, clutching his suitcase and trying to straighten his tie as they walked through the hallways. “The committee is quite impressed with your rapid progress, as a matter of fact. Still, some members would like some additional clarification on the, um, precursor material.”

“There have been questions?” Dr. Riesendorf said. “I admit it is unorthodox, yes, but I understand the Federal Court gave us the okay.”

“There are ethical concerns, yes, along with questions of practicality.”

She nodded in understanding. “I understand, Mr. Mueller. Let me put this in layman's terms. If you intend to build a house, your first step would to visit Hornbach or a similar store to purchase bricks and mortar, yes? This is similar. Or perhaps a better analogy is purchasing seeds for a garden. What we are doing here is artificially stimulating cell division on a truly massive scale, such that this organism will have a fully functioning brain, lungs, heart, and so on. But to do that, we need some tissue to begin with.” They approached a door labeled “Loading Dock”, with a full rack of protective gear along side. Dr. Riesendorf began to pull on a white smock, and offered another to Mueller. “Here, this will protect your clothing. Some also prefer to wear a mask or ventilator, those are available to you if you would like.”

“I think that is a good idea,” Mueller muttered as he struggled with the unfamiliar protective clothing. He looked a little green.

“Ever since this project began a week ago, I have been following the news of organized crime with great interest,” Dr. Riesendorf said as she made a final adjustment to her smock and walked into the loading dock chamber. A waiting teamster handed her a tablet with an inventory list. “With the price of cocaine tripling due to scarcity, there has been a great deal of violence in the criminal world, quite apart from the police crackdowns. It's perfect timing for a project of this nature, Mr. Mueller. We need tissue that comes from young, healthy donors. But rather than wait around for sudden accidents, they are furnishing the solution to their own problem.”

The driver lifted the gate for the waiting truck. A cool breeze from the refrigerated container washed over them, as did the sight of several black body bags neatly stacked up. There wasn't much of a noticeable smell, but Mr. Mueller still still gagged.

“Two 'Ndrangheta members from Stuttgart, dead in an internal feud,” Dr. Riesendorf read off the list. “Four bikers from Frankfurt, ambushed and killed by their rivals in the Serbian clans. A vor in the Dusseldorf bratva, stabbed to death by person or persons unknown. And finally, from Hamburg, the five victims of a shootout between the Albanians and the Turks.” She drew her signature on the tablet and handed it back to the driver. “All of these bodies are unclaimed.” 

Mueller looked ill. “This can't get out to the public. These men did not consent for their bodies to be used for experimentation. This is a gross human rights violation.”

Dr. Riesendorf shrugged. “This is science. I'll leave the rest to the lawyers.”

KYOTO PREFECTURE, JAPAN

A younger, fitter man would find this hike through thick woods and hills trivial, stimulating even. But a forty-three-year-old salaryman with few opportunities for exercise like Chikara Hanabusa found it difficult. He knew he had to keep going further up the mountain, though. All of Japan might depend upon what he did today.

He made this pilgrimage at least once a year, perhaps twice if he could get away from the transportation firm he worked at. It was the last remaining duty of the Hanabusa clan, a duty he would one day train his six-year-old in. 

They had been nobility once, a lineage going back to when this land was known as Tanba Province, and this mountain had laid within their modest domain. The last Baron Hanabusa, Chikara's great-grandfather, had spent much of his time away in Tokyo, gambling away the small family fortune in fruitless stock market speculations. Finally the new constitution had stripped them of their titles in 1947, their lands and even the family swords sold off to cover their debts. The Hanabusa family had not been as well-disposed as other members of the peerage and forced to take common jobs.

Chikara Hanabusa didn't mind. His noble blood meant little to him, aside from membership in an exclusive club in Tokyo where he couldn't even afford a glass of wine. Whenever he came out to the ancestral lands, one of the older village restaurants would treat him to a free bowl of soba. Chikara preferred the second perk, on the whole.

But with the family name and the free noodles came one monstrous responsibility. 

He stopped for a moment to wipe his sweating forehead, had a look around to get his bearings. He had been coming here since he was ten years old, first accompanying his father and then by himself. By now he knew the path well. His destination was quite literally around the bend. A nervousness suddenly washed over him, and his hands shook as he walked the final few steps before it came into view.

Half-buried but standing proud among the rocks was an enormous stone idol in the shape of an armored warrior. 

The Great Demon of the Mountain. 

Arakatsuma.

Or most commonly, Daimajin.

Chikara Hanabusa had been troubled by the news of kaiju attacks. He had been disturbed by the revelation that organized crime was responsible. He had been alarmed by the outbreak of underworld violence all over Japan from Sapporo to Naha. And finally he had been horrified by the utter destruction of a nuclear power plant in Kyushu with nearly two hundred deaths. Hanabusa knew this was incredibly light compared to the casualties in Bengaluru, Moscow, London, Medellin, and the US. But with Japan's dense cities, it had the possibility to be so much worse if further attacks occurred.

With only a moment's hesitation, Chikara Hanabusa supplicated himself before the half-buried idol. He did not follow the script and intone the old ancient pledges of respect and fealty to the demon. Instead he begged. He pleaded. He offered his own life if his wife and daughter and country could be protected from this newest and greatest of threats. Chikara Hanabusa groveled long and earnestly.

Until finally it listened.

The skies grew dark and thunder rumbled, in defiance of every forecast. The temperature dropped.

And suddenly, the rocks covering the idol's legs crumbled away. Ponderously, like a person waking from a long sleep, the stone figure began to move even as Chikara averted his eyes and tried to prostrate himself even further. It rolled its shoulder, stretched its arms in a human way.

Then finally, Daimajin rose its crossed arms over its face, then pushed them aside. Where once there had been merely a blank stone mask was now the green-tinted face of an ogre.

And it looked angry.

Chikara Hanabusa cowered as the giant warrior walked past him with enormous strides, growing even larger as it went.

What had he released into the world?

DUBAI, UAE

“I don't believe this, Ghulam,” JP Husain moaned. He got up and stared out the window, something Ghulam recognized only happened when Husain was truly angry. In any other city, an office on the 45th floor of a skyscraper might be impressive, but here the buildings stretched ever further skyward. “India's third-largest city is in ruins! Sixty thousand people are dead! The ruling party should be humiliated! The public should be burning them in effigy! But support for them is stronger than ever! Not a single resignation.”

“Perhaps we should focus on the positive,” Ghulam gently suggested. “The Mumbai police have been staging 'encounters' with several of your rivals. Their territory is largely up for grabs. Not to mention the general chaos is a good opportunity to expand operations in Pune and Nashik.” 

“Operations which I shall have to leave to subordinates,” Husain said bitterly, still glaring down at the traffic below. “Where did we go wrong, Ghulam? Why isn't the Parliament flipping?”

“Well, sir, perhaps because Megalon only attacked once and then disappeared underground,” Ghulam suggested after a moment's thought. “Once is a tragedy, after which is recovery and unity. But if it happens a second time, then perhaps the ruling party will look weak for failing to prevent it.”

There was silence. Then JP Husain chuckled softly. “Ghulam, you're right. You've shown me what a fool I am. Why don't you get that atlas off the shelf? We're going to pick where to launch our next attack.”

HONG KONG, PRC

The streets of Hong Kong Island were quiet.

There was plenty of noise. The constant overflights of jets and helicopters saw to that. But the majority of people were staying in their homes unless it was absolutely necessary to leave. Gaira was watching.

The green ogre had delicately squeezed between buildings with exaggerated care and then climbed to the top of Victoria Peak, the highest point on the island, and with its immense height on that vantage point it could easily see everything and everyone. Its yellow eyes glowed at night, looking down on Aberdeen and Chung Hom Kok and Kennedy Town and Chai Wan and of course the skyscrapers of Central. 

Military planners had decided against a direct attack on Gaira- not only could a single stray missile kill hundreds in the tightly packed city blocks, but such efforts had achieved nothing at all in other countries. Instead, they settled into a wait-and-see approach. Their efforts were limited to surveillance and trying to supply the islanders- while Wu had forbidden any ships landing on Hong Kong Island, the triads had not interfered with airdrops of food, medicine, and toiletries. 

The population of the island had stayed orderly, for the most part staying home. Some of the triad gangsters had been emboldened by Wu's announcement that the rule of law was no longer in effect, swaggering down the streets and attempting brazen open-air drug deals in the night markets. The police that had remained on the island, combined with special forces operatives that had infiltrated in small numbers under cover of darkness, quickly captured whatever gangsters they could for interrogation, demanding to know where Samuel Wu could be found and his ultimate objections.

The standoff had little in the way of demolished buildings or roaring gunfire, simply quiet streets and those luminous eyes looking down on the island from the Peak. The real damage to the city would be economic- with so few workers going to the office, investor confidence in the normally lucrative Hong Kong market was plummeting. Contracts were being quietly withdrawn and awarded elsewhere.

And so the days stretched on- the people waiting in dread, Gaira sitting quietly atop the mountain, and Samuel Wu nowhere to be found.

UZUNGOL, TURKEY

The picturesque lakeside village of Uzungol had carved a niche for itself in the tourist bubble of recent years, as big-city investors scrambled to build inns, restaurants, and shops in an effort to cash in. While the bubble had burst, Uzungol still enjoyed a steady flow of visitors, primarily Russians.

Uzungol was a peaceful place, an idyllic lake surrounded by towering mountains. While troops and warships had been mobilized along the Turkish Riveria to guard against the threat posed by Manda and Ebirah (an act that caused no small amount of consternation in Cyprus and other disputed territories), by and large in the northern Trabzon Province the rampages of kaiju and the ongoing underworld wars were far away. 

But the tranquility was ruined before anyone in the village even sat down for tea and breakfast. There came a rumbling as Kirpi armored personnel carriers bearing the livery of the Gendarmerie broke through the early morning mist and screeched to a halt in front of one lakeside inn.

The gendarmes didn't even have the chance to fully unload out of their vehicles before the shooting started. The windows of the inn smashed outwards and they were raked by gunfire. Grenades were thrown, the explosions doing little to the armored vehicles but shredding a few unlucky gendarmes. Undeterred, they took cover and returned fire, the pintle-mounted HK23 machine guns providing cover for gendarmes to advance inside the hotel. 

For several minutes tourists and residents of the little resort town hid in terror at the sound of gunfire and explosions from the inn as a brutal room-to-room battle was fought. Finally, however, the gendarmes' superior numbers and equipment won out, and the last echoes of conflict bounced off the mountains.

The gendarmes dragged out the dead bodies and groaning wounded, throwing them onto the ground. A man in civilian clothing stepped out of one of the armored cars and tossed aside the cigarette he was smoking as he took in the sight. “Show me their tattoos,” he ordered in heavily accented Turkish.

The gendarmes obediently began to rip open shirts, exposing elaborate and careful tattooing on the chests of the dead and wounded men. Skulls. Cathedrals. Eyes. The foreign man walked among them, consulting a tablet as he carefully surveyed the tattoos, before coming to one particular man, groaning and clutching a wound in his thigh.

The foreign man squinted as he carefully surveyed this particular man's tattoos, checking them against his tablet, before nodding in satisfaction. “Three coffins, a sun, a ship with sails,” he noted in Russian. “Valery Dmitrovich Kosarev, you and your surviving men are under arrest. You will be extradited back to Russia to stand trial for terrorism and conspiracy.”

Kosarev sneered in response but said nothing. The man in civilian clothing nodded, continued on. “It was a clever plan, but you left too many footprints behind. Buying stock in construction firms and real estate, corrupting union officials to receive kickbacks on contracts. It would take time but you would make millions off the rebuilding of Moscow. Then you and your inner circle conveniently decide to vacation in the Turkish countryside like so many other Russians so you're not in direct danger. Our detectives were able to piece it together. Valery Dmitrovich, if you call off Anguirus now you can avoid a great deal of unpleasantness.”

Kosarev glared but said nothing in response. The man sighed. “Well, can't say I didn't warn you.” He motioned to the gendarmes, who picked up Kosarev bodily to place him in the truck. “I'm sure you're having Anguirus lash out in retaliation. Well, no matter. We have something planned for dealing with your pet as well.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very pleased to see this work has 100 hits! A small number in some fandoms, true, but in a smaller one like this it's pretty significant. 
> 
> I'd love to hear what people are enjoying (or hating) about this work! Feel free to sound off in the comments.


	13. The Battle of Oklahoma City

CHENNAI, INDIA

The tourist paradise had become hell on earth.

Megalon had erupted from the ground at Parry's Corner, all drills and lightning and napalm. The art deco buildings exploded and burned. The courts and government buildings collapsed in columns of smoke, and the streets were filled with screams and sirens. 

In other words, it was simply another day on Planet Earth.

Thousands died in Megalon's rampage through Chennai, but it was hardly reported outside of India. Bangalore, London, Moscow, Limerick, Mobile, Medellin, Phoenix, Albuquerque, Port Said, Kampala- unfortunately the public could only absorb so much tragedy before fatalism set in. And indifference followed soon afterwards. 

But Husain's goal was to foment dissatisfaction with the ruling political party in India. The higher the death toll, he reasoned, the sooner there would be shame-faced resignations and a wave in support for the opposition party he was allied with.

And so Megalon continued its rampage, despite the ignorance of the wider world.

OKLAHOMA CITY, UNITED STATES

All was in readiness.

Kumonga had gone largely unopposed in Amarillo and Elk City, both trapped in a prison of steel-hard webbing. The giant spider had followed Interstate 40, gleefully stomping smaller towns like Clinton and Weatherford under eight legs. 

But the line in the sand had to be drawn somewhere. Now, in the suburbs of Oklahoma City, a defense line had been formed along the Kilpatrick Turnpike. Oklahoma National Guard had joined with artillery batteries from nearby Fort Sill all along the highway. Overhead, Air National Guard F-16s waited to attack as circling E-3 Sentry aircraft provided up-to-the-second intelligence to the ground units.

That was before considering their secret weapon, of course.

The evacuation was going poorly. Streets clogged fairly quickly, and a small but highly vocal number of citizens had declared the entire existence of kaiju to be a hoax for the government to seize power. The misinformation did little to help the confusion, and there were even a handful of incidents where armed extremists targeted military and civil authorities. Evacuating the city's massive stockyards faced even worse problems- unlike humans, stampeding cows and pigs could not be reasoned with or instructed. 

Throughout its 132-year history Oklahoma City had faced tornadoes, floods, and even terrorist attacks. But no one could be certain OKC would survive this.

Kumonga hit the sparse western outskirts of town, crushing suburban ranch homes and small commercial stores. The military began their defensive efforts. All along the turnpike, the bark of Paladin self-propelled howitzers mixed with the hissing roars of M270 rocket launchers. Fighting Falcon jets swooped low, letting off Maverick air-to-ground missiles. Just as predicted by the cynics, though, Kumonga charged straight through the barrage of cannon shells, rockets, and missiles. Enough firepower to level a small city and Kumonga was no more inconvenienced than it would be by a stiff breeze. Yet another failed attack- seasoned gamblers on the Kumonga website had known this was a sucker bet, odds had turned heavily against the US military ever since the Arizona desert and the disaster at Fort Benning. 

The artillerymen began their usual shoot-and-scoot once it became clear that Kumonga had not gone down, falling back to preplanned points. Luckily Kumonga generally did not go out of its way to attack soldiers, choosing instead to rush by them once they were out of the way. Like a game of Red Rover, the giant spider charged through the gap in the defensive line at the junction of I-40 and the turnpike, even as the soldiers regrouped and continued to fire on it from the rear. All according to plan.

But Kumonga, and by extension Julian Capizzi, was surprised as suddenly a brown shape that had previously been dismissed as some kind of hillock reared up from the flat ground and slammed against the unprepared spider. It was sent rolling sideways, crushing houses and strip malls underneath its body. Kumonga shrieked indignantly, struggling to untangle its eight legs as it glared balefully at whatever had the gall to tackle it.

The newcomer kaiju drew itself to its full height of fifty meters, bony spines proud along its back and webbing under its arms and legs. 

Varan. Capizzi sneered in his office in Las Vegas. Whatever mobster that controlled the other one had cut a deal. Better than lethal injection for those who died in Mobile and Columbus, he supposed. The bookies he had working around the clock on the floor below frantically began calculating odds and processing bets. The Kumonga website suddenly surged in popularity, as people all over the world put down money on one kaiju or the other. 

Without warning, Varan suddenly leaped into the air, much higher than anyone would have guessed possible, and spread its arms and legs. The webbing caught the air, and it glided with jaw-dropping speed headfirst into Kumonga. The spider was sent tumbling again, this time flattening the inventory and showroom of a car dealership. Better prepared for the assault, Kumonga was able to get to its feet much quicker as Varan charged it again. This time, Capizzi was ready.

Just as the reptile was almost on top of Kumonga, the spider twitched sideways, causing Varan to stumble in the ruins of the dealership. It swung one of its long legs, giving Varan a good stiff blow to the back. Enough to capitalize on the stumble and cause Varan to fall flat on its face in a thoroughly undignified fashion. 

Kumonga viciously exploited the opportunity, pouncing on the supine reptile. However, in its eagerness, Kumonga had overlooked Varan's muscular tail, which immediately pushed away the giant spider long enough for Varan to regain its feet. 

The two kaiju warily circled one another like boxers in the ring, each hesitant to make the next move. Finally Varan acted, kicking at the neatly parked cars at their feet and sending several flying at Kumonga's unprotected eyes. Even while flinching back, Capizzi recognized it as an old street fighting maneuver and briefly wondered who controlled Varan. The fleeting thought was replaced by more urgent matters as Varan slammed into Kumonga yet again, this time grabbing hold of the giant spider and bringing them both to the ground with a crash that shattered windows for miles. 

They entwined as they grappled ferociously, rolling over houses and businesses for nearly half a mile. Kumonga stabbed at its foe with daggerlike claws, tried to bring its crushing mandibles to bear. Varan was at something of an advantage here, its appendages were able to actually grab and hold on, unlike Kumonga's nubs. 

Kumonga did have an ace in the hole, however.

A needle-like stinger suddenly shot from its mouth with the speed of a switchblade. The timing was dead-on, just right to completely impale Varan's grasping hand. Rivers of blood, enough to fill a swimming pool, poured down onto the roofs of houses below. Varan roared in agony, leaping back from Kumonga, sending even more blood flying as it pulled its hand off the long stinger. It stumbled backwards, its scaly feet crushing an elementary school. 

Now was Kumonga's chance. It opened its maw wide, and once again a steady stream of silk shot forth and rained over Varan. The reptilian kaiju recovered and tried to rush forwards, but it founds its movements sluggish and restrained- the silk was already beginning to tangle its limbs. Varan pushed against the binding, but the silk webbing grew thicker and thicker, wrapping it like a mummy. Varan fell to the ground, still struggling ineffectually against the straitjacket of silk wrapping around it. Kumonga added a few more layers for good measure, before extending its stinger and plunging it into the helpless kaiju.

Kumonga observed its foe for a moment. Varan was so completely immobilized that it was impossible to tell if it was alive or dead. 

Capizzi shrugged in his office. Either way, the opposition was down, no sense standing around. Better send Kumonga into town to wreak some havoc.

PODOLSK, RUSSIA

It has often observed by philosophers and poets that you cannot imprison the human mind. The industrial city of Podolsk was confirming this hypothesis. 

Kosarev had been brought back to Russia in irons but had remained stonily silent ever since his capture in Turkey. He had turned inward, focusing entirely on controlling Anguirus. The tactics of careful demolition were gone, replaced with absolute rampaging and wanton cruelty- it would be petty if it wasn't so dangerous. Angurius had doubled back to Central Moscow, despite taking pains to avoid it earlier. The new skyscrapers of the business district were pushed over, the imposing red brick walls of the Kremlin shattered under a clubbed tail, and the colorful onion-shaped domes of St. Basil's Cathedral were now lying in thousands of pieces in Red Square, blackened with soot and the dust of thousands of tons of rubble.

But Moscow alone had not been enough to sate Kosarev's anger, and destroying empty buildings had not been enough to punish Russia for incarcerating him once again. And so, even as Russian authorites variously cajoled and threatened Kosarev, Angurius had charged past the southern limits of Moscow. It mercilessly hunted down columns of evacuees, stomping deliberately on overflowing cars and buses stalled on the E30 and A-105. The outlying bedroom communities, their populations swelled by tent cities of the Muscovites who had been unable to flee any further. Anguirus had been restrained and delicate when the rampage began days ago, resulting in a relatively low death toll for such a populous city, much lower than London or Bengaluru at least. But now the death toll had skyrocketed- nearly thirty-five thousand dead since Anguirus had stepped foot outside of Moscow. And climbing quickly.

Smaller cities in Moscow Oblast had fallen in rapid succession. Vidnoye. Gorki. Domodedovo. And now it was Podolsk's turn. 

Kosarev, locked in a cell in the hastily declared emergency capital at St. Petersburg, did not expect that was exactly where they'd hoped he'd go. 

The usual token resistance met Angurius on the outskirts of the industrial city- if Kosarev had paid closer attention he would have noticed the livery of a poorly regarded regiment on the outdated T-72 tanks. Disposable troops, there more for appearances than an actual effort at resistance. The half-heartedness of the display went past Kosarev's head as he mentally pushed the spiked kaiju further into the city. 

The seventy large factories in the town kept the air thick with smog, so much the better for the purposes for the NBC Protection Corps. They had taken the failure of their gas attack on Anguirus in Begovoy somewhat personally and petitioned military planners for a second chance. For lack of better options, but still reluctant to use nuclear bombs, the Ministry of Defense had authorized the use of biological weapons. The Soviet state had operated a sophisticated and well-funded program in that arena- while it had been all but dismantled the research and protocols were a matter of public record and easily reactivated. Proposals for weaponized smallpox, glanders, anthrax, and botulinum were floated but quickly rejected. The winning proposal ultimately came from the scientific campuses in Pushchino. Ironically, their bacteriological agents had never even been envisioned as weapons in the first place, instead conceived as a means to counteract pollution. Similar to the much-publicized bacteria that ate crude oil, they had been designed to consume greenhouse gasses and other unpleasant aerial byproducts of pollution. The project had been scrapped due to the unforeseen side effects of the bacteria's incredible rate of mitosis and producing enormous quantities of hydrofluoric acid as a byproduct of cellular division. However, in the case of a rampaging kaiju, the words “features, not bugs” was something of a catchphrase. 

A Bastion-P towed missile system fired the one and only shot from the parking lot of a Pyaterochka grocery store in Shaganino. The single P-800 missile was fitted with a sufficient bacteriological warhead for its purpose and expertly guided directly into Angurius as it kicked over yet another of Podolsk's factories. Better than expected, it landed directly between the eyes. 

Spotters had been dropped from helicopters on the roofs of the tallest buildings in Podolsk, and their testimony in the minutes while radio contact was available forms most of our knowledge of those critical first few minutes. The spotters report a positive missile impact directly into Anguirus' head. 

The transcripts of early radio reports describe a black mass spreading from the site of impact on Anguirus' forehead, with increasing speed and alacrity. Whatever unnatural healing process the kaiju held were pitted against the exponentially increasing spread of bacteria along the kaiju's skin, heavily accelerated by the pollution in the air. The bacteria continued to divide faster and faster, producing more and more acid to burn through the quadrupedal creature's thick skin. 

It bellowed in pain and fear as more and more of its skin was eaten away by the invader, tan replaced by pure black. The spreading cancer began to boil upwards, black sludge boiling out of the kaiju's skin into a lumpy, slimy mass. Anguirus screamed and fought at the creature growing on its back, its spastic kicks flattening houses and apartment blocks. After several tortuous minutes, Anguirus' honking cries of pain were silenced at last, overwhelmed by the sounds of black sludge flowing over its mouth.

Finally the black slimy mass ate through Anguirus' thick skull and reached its brain. Slowly, the scientists watching through live video feeds began to worry. As the kaiju's skull was burned away, the bacteria had access to Angurius' large and underutilized brain. It was here that the genetically engineered cells learned complexity, that they collectively realized there was more to life than simply eating and dividing more and more cells.

The bacteria grew more and more complex, copying the exciting new tissue it found, absorbing the brain into its own gestalt consciousness. Within minutes it was a million times more complex as it overwrote and replaced Anguirus' brain tissue.

And barely fifteen minutes later, a new creature opened its sideways eyes. Anguirus was completely gone, absorbed into this new creature. Its new brain glowed red with the stimulation of new division as it grew more and more aware of itself, threatening to break free of the new creatures scalp.

Finally, it expelled all the acid generated from its celluar division, spraying a fine mist of hydroflouric acid all over Podolsk. Glass and steel melted, releasing caustic fumes into the air. Human beings suffered extensive burns, even through the protection of hazmat suits. None of the handful of spotters still stationed in the city lived more than a few days longer. 

Eventually, after absorbing just enough of Anguirus' complexity, the creature was able to stand up on its own. Two red baleful eyes glared out at the world, rotated 90 degrees from where they should be.

And thus Anguirus was replaced by a more powerful creature, something that knew only hate, something that could not be reasoned with.

Hedorah was born.

KYOTO, JAPAN

The forecast had called for a clear night in the most picturesque and traditional of Japanese cities. However, the commuters making their way home at the end of the workday were puzzled by the sudden gathering of clouds, the unseasonably cold wind, the ominous rumble of thunder. Curses were muttered, umbrellas searched for.

The bright light in the sky was first spotted by residents on the northern end of town. A bright fiery ball, swooping low from over the dense woods of Mount Atago towards the city limits. The people of Kyoto gaped, pointed upwards, took photos and videos on their phones. Word of the “Kyoto UFO” spread quickly.

The glowing sphere continued over the city itself, over the gabled roofs of old wooden traditional temples and onsen, then over the flat roofs of more modern concrete office blocks as it came into Shimogyo Ward, Kyoto's downtown area. Between the odd weather and the appearance of this mysterious flying light, very few people were not looking skyward.

The light finally slowed as it approached Kyoto Tower, a 100-meter structure whose very modernity made it out of place in this city. Traditionalists often singled it out as a crass affront to the city's historical and spiritual nature. Tonight, however, every eye was turned to it as the light began to orbit it, slowly, almost curiously. Thunder rumbled. Few spoke.

Suddenly, with a sense of great deliberation, the ball of light began to descend towards the street, Shiokoji-dori, running between the tower and the blocky glass and steel building of Kyoto Station, which had been the target of similar architectural criticism. Suddenly, lighting tore down from the heavens, a searing flash of white that caused most to look away, accompanied by an impossibly loud crack of thunder. Those who turned back to the odd sight found themselves awestruck.

It stood upon Shiokoji-dori on two booted feet, resplendent in its ancient samurai armor and standing a full sixty-five meters. There were few who had not heard of the plague of kaiju attacks, but everyone understood them to look like strange animals or beasts. Not like fully dressed men. It looked down on Kyoto from underneath its crested helmet with a green ogre's face and blood-red eyes filled with anger. Not the wild, unrestrained mindless fury that had marked kaiju attacks elsewhere. This was a cold fury, an icy wind. A look many people associated with a disappointed father.

The people of Kyoto felt an odd feeling of shame, a feeling they had been judged and found wanting. 

Daimajin glared coldly for a moment longer, before turning his sneer upon Kyoto Tower. It reached for the sword on its belt (itself as long as a train coach) and slowly drew. The blade didn't seem to be metal, rather something that glowed and sparked and hurt to look at. Daimajin made one deliberate upwards movement with the sword in the direction of Kyoto Tower, without actually touching it, before once again sheathing the sword.

Cracking suddenly appeared on the concrete pillar of Kyoto Tower. Thankfully the tower had been closed for the night, as it slowly but with increasing speed tipped sideways, the superstructure of the observation tower cut cleanly through.

Finally, the severed top of the tower crashed into the office buildings across the street- thankfully closed for the night. By a series of improbable coincidences- missed trains, sick relatives, and so on- none of the night cleaners for those buildings. The phrase “miraculously no one was hurt” was used extensively, with heavy emphasis on “miraculously”. 

Daimajin folded its arms and glared expectantly. Without a word being spoken, the message had been received.

The citizens of Kyoto streamed out into the streets, approaching the still figure cautiously. And then, like the fall of the tower, it began. Slowly but picking up speed, the people of Kyoto began to bow to Daimajin.

After all, it was an old god who demanded certain courtesies. But it conferred certain privileges as well. 

SANTORINI, GREECE

As far as places to be, Santorini was one of the better ones at the moment.

Apart from the natural splendor, rich history, and temperate climate that had made the island a favorite stop for cruise ships, it had largely remained safe through the present crisis. Though there were a handful of local mobsters or “lords of the night” determined to entice foreigners into spending money on card games or recreational drug use, the island had avoided anything like the wave of stabbings that had swept Athens or the bloody shootouts in the cannabis fields of Crete. Thus far Ebirah and Manda had kept their distance, and the sight of blue-painted Hellenic Coast Guard boats off the shore keeping watch had reassured both locals and visitors. There were vague rumors that the Turks might try to take advantage of the crisis and grab a few islands, but those loose words were dismissed as baseless fearmongering. 

No one here expected to see a kaiju.

For the last few days, however, strange objects had been washing up on the pristine white beaches with increasing regularity. Small, comma-shaped beads of an unknown metal. They felt warm to the touch when picked up and caught the light in odd ways. Some of the better read people who found the beads joked it was orichalcum, then when faced with the blank stares of their friends had to explain that orichalcum was the metal of Atlantis. Their belabored explanations continued further as they explained that Santorini was possibly the location of Atlantis before they gave up on the bit entirely. 

As the days went on and more and more frightening news of gang violence and kaiju attacks reached Santorini, however, the people of the island grew less jocular. Sure, they were safe for now, but how long before Ebirah or Manda or God knew what made a move? Could those tiny, puny Coast Guard boats possibly hope to protect them?

But when the lights flashed beneath the waters of the Santorini Caldera and the huge form slowly broke the surface, the people rushing to the shore to watch did not feel the fear they had expected. Something deep and instinctual was buried in their minds, a long-forgotten recognition that nonetheless had survived to present day. They saw the armored stomach, the bulky shell, the long tusks protruding upwards from the mouth. Somehow, every human knew this new creature was not a threat. Instead in its green eyes they finally saw hope, and they knew courage instead of fear.

The Guardian of the Universe opened its toothy mouth and roared, a higher sound than anyone expected. And in that moment, as they watched the terrapin ascend to the skies on jets of fire, everyone assembled knew that finally an ally of humanity had arrived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gamera is really neat! Gamera is filled with meat! We've been eating Gamera!
> 
> I'm surprised Daimajin doesn't get more love in the kaiju fandom, and it's a character I'm having a lot of fun writing. Excited to hear your thoughts in the comments!


	14. Say Hello to my Little Friend to All Children

NORTH WEST PROVINCE, SOUTH AFRICA

“And lo, in the time of the Titans there shall come a Guardian.”

The little cottage on the Highveld, despite its remoteness, did not lack for the comforts of the 21st century. Even miles away from Ottoshoop, the nearest town, Piet Cloete (six years retired from his history fellowship at Stellenbosch University) still had all the essentials: electricity, gas, water, cable and internet. All of which was coming in handy as he simultaneously boiled water for a pot of rooibos, watched the international news with grim interest, and pored over his personally annotated translations of certain rare texts.

Cloete could only nod to himself at the footage of the newest kaiju in Santorini, stopping only to compare the giant turtle's form with that in the photographs of ancient etchings he had strewn across the table. He hadn't expected the tusks, but everything else added up. He scoffed at the breathless speculation from news anchors on exactly which crime group controlled this new titanic terrapin- there was a lively debate between experts on whether the Albanian or Greek syndicates were responsible. Cloete knew the truth, however.

His fascination with Atlantis had started innocently enough, a childish interest that he was mildly embarrassed by and hesitated to mention in casual conversation. But over the years, it had become something of a side project to his academic career, blossoming into an area of actual scholarship. Cloete had found that his status as a professor at a respected university had opened doors that might otherwise be closed, especially helped when the apartheid regime collapsed and the general reputation of South Africa improved. He had spent vacations to Paris and New York and London immersed in libraries and museums while his partner (now husband) Ramesh had patiently done the shopping and sightseeing for both of them. 

Finally, in 2002, comfortably tenured and gently prodded by Ramesh, Cloete had published a book on the lore of Atlantis he had pieced together over the years. It wasn't exactly a runaway bestseller, but it had been a modest success. Enough to supplement their income and earn him some recognition in some circles. 

Cloete had been wholly unprepared for the outpouring of volunteered information this would cause. 

The burgeoning internet had opened his inbox to just about every Fortean, occultist, fringe historian, conspiracy theorist, and con artist on the internet. The vast majority were crackpots. But at the same time, a great deal of new information came forwards, leads he would have never known to pursue otherwise. A little-known library in an obscure corner of Montenegro. A billionaire and enthusiast in Tianjin invited Cloete to view his extensive private collection. An all-night chat with a hermit in his shack in the Chilean Andes. And so Cloete came to prepare his second book, and then his third, delving deeper and deeper into the lost world of Atlantis. 

And it was in that newest wave of research that he first learned of the Guardian. The Black Tortoise, the Great Beast of the North, the Last Warrior of Atlantis, the Protector of Youth, Friend to All Children.

Gamera.

NAPLES, ITALY

Finally, at last they were moving forwards with the plan again.

Cesare Pirone had found Ghjuvan Orsini almost impossible to work with. The Camorra and the Unione Corse had frequently been rivals in the past, and the bad blood had been carried forwards into their new alliance. In the year of preparation he had been given, Pirone had broken the rules and quietly reached out to some of the many criminal syndicates operating along the Mediterranean Sea. Unfortunately his usual partners in Tirana, Tel Aviv, Palermo, Tangier, and other cities all failed him. 

So he was stuck working with the Corsicans and their leader, that fat pigheaded cripple Orsini. The corner of Pirone's mouth twitched slightly downwards, which was equivalent to screaming in frustration for most people. But, he reassured himself, at least the payday would be good.

The fundamental plan was simple enough, and Pirone had easily sold Orsini on it. Make the Mediterranean their own personal toll road, charge a huge fee to shipping concerns and navies to avoid having their ships pulled under the surface. Simple enough. But the two men had argued on almost every detail, Orsini often objecting to Pirone's suggestions more on principle than from spotting any weaknesses in them. Pirone thought of everything, but he didn't account for Orsini's stubbornness.

Finally, after days of petty arguments, the two men had ultimately agreed on a next step after effectively sealing off the entrances to the Mediterranean. While it had been thoroughly demonstrated time and again that conventional military forces could accomplish little against kaiju, they could still be annoying distractions. So a preemptive attack was in order to scuttle the most powerful fleets on the sea. Orsini's kaiju, Ebirah, was due to strike at the French military port at Toulon. And Pirone would send Manda to his native Naples to destroy the American Sixth Fleet, as well as crucial support and logistics facilities for the Italian Navy. A few American and French vessels were actively searching for the kaiju but several more remained at port, preparing for the inevitable battle. Besides, Toulon and Naples were good-sized cities. A few wrecked skyscrapers, a few razed blocks, a few thousand dead civilians would go a long way towards persuading shipping to pay up.

Pirone closed his eyes, saw the world through Manda's eyes. The great serpentine dragon was making good time, the night was clear, and the lights of Naples were visible on the horizon. Manda had just passed Capri and was rapidly closing on the port.

But then there was a light in the sky, a flickering white-blue flame that seemed to spin in the air. Manda's small ears perked at the odd whistling noise that grew louder and louder.

The dragon's yellow eyes grew wide at the realization that the spinning light- no, lights, it could make out four of them- were approaching faster and faster, like a falling meteor. Manda turned its long body in the water, trying to dodge aside, but as gracefully and quickly as it moved, the flying, flaming object maneuvered through the air with equal ease. 

The spinning object smashed into Manda at very near the speed of sound, throwing a massive torrent of water and steam into the air. Then Manda found itself seized in a terrible grip, two massive clawed hands and a sharp-toothed mouth digging into its long body and even drawing golden blood.

And then the flames began again, and the dragon found itself being lifted up, up into the air, the choppy waters and the isle of Capri growing smaller and smaller as it was dragged into the heavens in the hands and jaws of a massive turtle.

Pirone overcame his shock and mentally commanded Manda to fight back, even as it was dragged through the night sky at three times the speed of sound. It bit, it scratched with its small claws, it wound itself around the newcomer's body and tried to squeeze, but found its plated shell to be quite resistant to being crushed. Finally, after long minutes of midair grappling, Manda's desperate scrabbling found purchase in one of the turtle's vulnerable eyes. Manda was disappointed the clawed eye was met with little more than an annoyed grunt, then horrified as the turtle did a barrel roll in midair- a maneuver that unwound the dragon's tight coils. Helplessly, Manda fell the thousands of feet to earth.

Rather than water, Manda's fall terminated on soft sand- anything harder and the kaiju might have been badly hurt. The impact threw a tremendous cloud of sand into the air, obscuring the night sky for miles. Even through the haze, Manda could see the turtle continuing to fly away, not bothering to come finish their fight. It seemed someone had more important things to do. 

Pirone looked through Manda's eyes in bewilderment at the featureless desert stretching to the horizon. He had no idea where his kaiju was or which direction to head. The heat and lack of water were unlikely to be as dangerous to Manda as they would be to a lost human, true, but being invulnerable only helped if you knew where you were. This would set back their entire schedule. 

No, the real danger was that light fading in the sky, the creature that had treated a powerful kaiju like Manda as a mere annoyance, an obstacle to be quite literally tossed aside.

Pirone wondered just what they were dealing with. 

NORTH WEST PROVINCE, SOUTH AFRICA

The information on Gamera was scant- Cloete was part of a minority of Atlantis scholars that believed most of it had been deliberately destroyed. Others believed it had all been lost in the great cataclysm that had finally brought down that great precursor civilization. 

What little remained suggested that Gamera was the last of four great and powerful guardian beasts created by Atlantis in the final days before the catastrophe, a light flung into the future to protect youth and ensure the future of humanity. All well and good, if the other three guardian monsters had not been responsible for the destruction of Atlantis. The long and protracted duel between the White Tiger and the Azure Dragon had left both guardians dead and much of Atlantis in ruins. The Vermilion Bird had bred out of control and the hordes sated their limitless hunger on the survivors. Finally, the last hope. The Black Tortoise lay dormant and untested, never activated to fulfill its purpose as a champion of humanity.

Until today.

TIMBUKTU, MALI

It only came out at night. As it neared midnight, the mixed force of Malian and French troops braced themselves for yet another attack.

The ancient city, which by some estimates even predated Rome, had for the last eight years been a battlefield. Sadly, this cultured and richly historical city was often the front line of the low-intensity conflict between the French-backed government forces in southern Mali and the various branches of al-Qaeda affiliated Islamic extremist groups based out of the north. 

Every night for the past three nights, more and more militants had been coming into the city to harass and attack various targets: military patrols, government buildings, any large gatherings of people. Under normal circumstances, the Malian and French troops would have easily been able to handle the raids. But their air support, bought from the Lagos gangster Dickson Okoro, was another matter altogether.

Megaguirus would suddenly descend out of the dark sky, tearing through French warplanes like they were paper. It would buzz over the city, the beats of its massive wings sending gale-force winds through the streets, and snatch up opportune targets in its numerous grasping claws. In the wind and the darkness, you would never see it until it was too late to run. Entire platoons of infantry, torn to bits in an instant. Patrolling armored cars, crushed like eggshells. 

French drone and missile strikes had failed to drive away the kaiju. Even with a steady stream of reinforcements arriving from Bamako daily, the defenders of Timbuktu were rapidly losing ground. They would take back a block in the day, only to lose two that night. 

Tonight was no exception. Dozens of small, separate firefights raged in the ancient windswept streets. The government troops were staying inside the low adobe buildings wherever possible- Megaguirus liked to snatch up people out on the open streets. Not that the buildings offered much protection against tens of thousands of tons of dragonfly. 

But tonight, over the roar of gunfire and the howling of winds, something new could be heard. Some of the embattled troops thought it sounded like the hiss of jets, but official word was that the French Mirage fighters had been grounded for now. Underneath, a peculiar whistling could be heard.

From inside the earthen buildings, an enormous crash could be heard overhead, a slam that caused the very walls to shake. It was punctuated by another, even bigger crash that reverberated throughout the city, punctuated by an earsplitting shrill cry of pain. The gunfire and explosions died, a sudden unspoken truce as both jihadists and government troops tried to make sense of what was happening. Some even stepped out from behind cover, squinting through the darkness.

There came a new sound, completely unlike the high-pitched screeches that had punctuated attacks by Megaguirus. This was a throaty, trumpeting cry, almost like that of an elephant. Timbuktu's electrical grid had been knocked out in the second day of the nonstop fighting, leaving the gathering crowds of soldiers of both sides no choice but to peer through the heavy night, trying to discern more than a vague shape towering over the highest rooftops.

Suddenly, a small ball of light appeared around sixty meters above the ground, steadily growing in size and brightness. Slowly, more details became visible as the fireball grew and illuminated more and more of the area. Megaguirus could be seen lying on its back, writhing in pain and bleeding purple blood from a dozen deep wounds. And as the light brightened further, those watching could even see the source. The light was gathering heat and strength in the open jaws of an enormous turtle, green eyes fixed on its fallen foe.

Instinct and training took over, and all the assembled fighters dove for the nearest cover as the fireball leaped out of Gamera's mouth and tore into Megaguirus. The titanic dragonfly simply exploded in a gout of flame and ichor, sending a fine rain of purple blood over most of Timbuktu. 

Soldiers began to emerge from under cover to find the jihadists retreating or surrendering, recognizing their chances of victory had been greatly diminished with the death of Megaguirus. But even as the French and Malian troops wrangled prisoners, they looked towards a rapidly shrinking blue dot in the sky, as Gamera raced towards yet another battle. . .

NORTH WEST PROVINCE, SOUTH AFRICA

To every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. This maxim applies to kaiju as much as anything else.

Cloete reflected on the nature of the four great beats. The Azure Dragon and the White Tiger had been opposites, driven by some unwritten instinct to fight one another to the death. So the same could be said for the Black Tortoise and Vermilion Bird. Their ultimate destiny was to fight one another.

Gamera's programming had awoken it due to the multiple kaiju threatening the future of humanity. But Cloete feared this would send a signal, incomprehensible to modern minds, to Gamera's natural adversary.

The few surviving texts had many names for it. The Vermilion Bird. The Shadow of Evil. Death's Wing.

Or, in the original Atlantean, Gyaos.

SASKATCHEWAN, CANADA

It wasn't a bad gig, all things considered. Jack Dawson, aspiring author and full-time federal employee, considered himself lucky. Three months out of the year to sit in a cabin deep in the unspoiled woods, a pristine lake full of fish, plenty of fresh air and solitude- perfect for trying to work out that first novel, which would surely be the hardest. Though truth be told Dawson was getting worried- three weeks until his relief arrived and he hadn't written a single paragraph he was happy with. But on the whole, a good job. Of course, the extremely strict non-disclosure agreement was a bit of a nuisance, he couldn't actually tell anyone what he was doing up here each year. 

Then again, who would ever believe he was up here babysitting a bunch of eggs the size of minivans?

From what little Dawson knew about the eggs, situated in a bowl-shaped depression about a hundred meters from his cabin, they had been discovered by some loggers in the 1930s. The government had quickly taken over, and run tests off and on over the decades. The heyday had been the 50s, everyone bringing up X-rays and ultrasounds and whatever else they could think of to try to study them. The shells couldn't be cracked open- it had taken a dozen broken diamond drill bits before the government gave up on that.

But in all that time, despite the vague forms of creatures that could be seen from the high-tech equipment and the assurances of scientists that these things lived, nothing had happened with the eggs.

Finally in the early 90s, the downfall of the Soviet Union and the severe recession that had struck Canada caused the budget for further experimentation to be severely cut. A few eggs had been shipped off to classified facilities, but the majority (413 of them, to be exact) had remained exactly where they were first discovered. And so the stance had become mostly custodial, passive observation just in case something interesting happened. The usual game of federal hot potato had begun in Ottawa until finally it landed in the lap of the Department of the Environment. 

And that's where Jack Dawson came in.

His duties didn't really amount to much. Walk among the eggs twice a day, make log entries, report in by radio once a day. His days were mostly spent fishing or reading or staring in frustration at a blank piece of paper. Sure, there were protocols to follow if anything happened, but he expected nothing to happen. Nothing had in the nearly 90 years since the eggs had been found, and certainly nothing in the four years he had been coming up here, three months out of the year and the other nine spent behind a desk in Regina. Truth be told, he didn't particularly remember what he was supposed to do in case of an actual emergency. 

Now, in the last few desperate minutes of his life, as Jack Dawson screamed into the radio to make himself heard over the sound of his roof being torn away and tried to load a Savage bolt-action rifle with his one remaining hand, he wished he had paid more attention. 

NORTH WEST PROVINCE, SOUTH AFRICA

Cloete finished the rooibos tea, decided he needed something a bit stronger and poured a dram of Klipdrift. Of all the works of Atlantis, the Gyaos had left behind the most proof of their existence- testament to their extraordinary ability to reproduce. The flying creatures had spread all over the ancient world, leaving behind clutches of eggs waiting countless millenia for the coming of their adversary. Waiting for the right moment to hatch.

Cloete had tracked down evidence of a few of these clutches of eggs, usually thankfully after their destruction. Campania, 79- some minor accounts of the eruption of Vesuvius report gigantic eggs being covered in lava. Telemark, 1031- a Viking settlement painstakingly pushes over a hundred “dragon eggs” into the sea. Quezon, 1878- records of a clutch of eggs being dynamited by the Spanish colonial government. Paraguay, 1982- photos and videos of eggs being submerged by the newly created reservoir of the Itaipu Dam.

But there had to be more out there still, just waiting to be discovered. And some anecdotal evidence from before any white person had ever set foot in this part of Africa suggested that there was one such clutch of eggs buried somewhere here in this isolated piece of veld.

When the stretch of land had come up for sale years ago, he had convinced Ramesh it would be fun to have a country place, a little getaway from the Cape, isolated but close enough to Johannesburg for the creature comforts only a large city could provide. But he had another purpose for buying this specific plot, a fantastic and foolish idea. And so he would spend weekends and holidays up here combing this arid little patch of land for any signs of massive eggs just below the red soil.

But then the kaiju had come, piloted by gangsters. There had been some alarm in South Africa, shootouts and police raids on the drug and car theft gangs in the Cape Flats, a mobilization of the military when Kampala came under attack. But nothing serious. Nobody expected much.

Except Piet Cloete. He knew the kaiju would awaken Gamera. And Gamera would awaken Gyaos.

So he had left Ramesh behind, come up here to this little country cottage. Because someone had to bear witness. Because his yearning for knowledge had to be satisfied after so many years.

And because someone had to try to thin their numbers a bit.

He was satisfied. His life had been long and mostly happy, but above all he now knew he was right. And as Piet Cloete heard the birthing cries of the Gyaos on his country property, the flapping of leathery wings, the breaking of the parlor windows, and the scrape of dozens of claws against the cottage walls, he had only one regret. He hadn't said goodbye to his husband.

“I'm sorry, Ramesh,” Piet Cloete said, downing the last of his glass of Klipdrift and triggering the switch to the thirty kilos of dynamite under the kitchen table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And where there is a Gamera there is a Gyaos. Heavy inspiration from the Heisei Gamera trilogy, which honestly might be my favorite kaiju movies depending on my mood. 
> 
> The White Tiger and Azure Dragon of the ancient past were Jiger and Barugon, respectively. 
> 
> Hope everyone is enjoying this work thus far, would love to hear your thoughts!

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! If you've read this far, you're awesome.
> 
> I have been a huge Godzilla fan since watching those Saturday afternoon matinees of Showa-era films on public access television, with my cup of soda and fruit snacks. That has over time expanded into a general love of all things huge and scaly, kaiju movies of every description.
> 
> There is one particular subplot in GODZILLA VS. SPACEGODZILLA wherein the yakuza tries to take control of Godzilla. That subplot is abandoned after about ten minutes of runtime but the dramatic possibilities captured my imagination. What could organized crime accomplish if they controlled giant monsters?
> 
> This fic is set in a world very much like our own. The existence of kaiju is not known to the general public. It's not necessarily limited to the Toho canon, either- others may appear. All gangster characters are fictional, though some are based on real-world figures (bonus points if you can correctly guess who). 
> 
> Also, open to all questions, criticisms, even suggestions!


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